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VIRGINIA 


1 Arthur St. Clair.J-F. o nis. 


>ui 


ARTHUR ST. CLAIR OF 
OLD FORT RECOVERY 


BY 


S. A. D. WHIPPLE 

u 



BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 

835 Broadway y New York 

BRANCH OFFICES: WASHINGTON, BALTIMORE 

INDIANAPOLIS, NORFOLK, DES MOINES. IOWA 




Copyright, 19 ii, 

- By 

S. A\ D. WHIPPLE. 





©CI,A297586 

t. ' 


DEDICATION 


This volume is dedicated to the memory of the 
soldiers and pioneer women who, in their efforts to 
stamp the progress of civilization upon the unbroken 
forest of the Northwest Territory, lost their lives at 
the battle of St. Clair’s defeat, fought on the present 
site of the little city of Ft. Recovery, Ohio, on the 
banks of the Wabash River, November the 4th, 1791. 

What they suffered for humanity’s sake we shall 
never know, and what humanity owes to their mem- 
ory is but poorly paid in keeping alive in both tra- 
dition and legend their heroic deeds. 

The Author. 


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NOTE 


In the preparation of this little volume the author 
is indebted to Henry Howe’s History of Ohio, Judge 
Samuel F. Hunt’s lecture on St. Clair’s Defeat de- 
livered at Ft. Recovery on the fourth day of No- 
vember, 1791 ; Headley’s “Washington and his Gen- 
erals,” from each of which many valuable historical 
facts were taken. The chapters relating to the bat- 
tle are historically true, except the personal expe- 
riences of “Major Arthur.” The name of Arthur 
St. Clair, the hero, is used for the purpose of per- 
petuating that name with the greatest Indian battle 
ever fought. 


The Author. 


^ ^ ti ti I'mi. .j- - I j 


PROLOGUE 


Twilight is gathering on the wings of night, as the 
last golden ray of the setting sun shines beautifully 
o’er the surrounding landscape, painting everything 
it touches in radiant hues, while the distant mountain 
tops sparkle as though they were studded with na- 
ture’s rarest gems. Yet, far below in the valley, the 
shades of evening have deepened into night’s sombre 
curtain, and all nature is gently folding her arms in 
peaceful slumber. 

Upon this panorama gazes a young man, but with 
little interest in the beauties that surround him, for 
oft had the same picture wooed his attention, and 
oft had the same grand Old Sol, in his diurnal course, 
spread his sheen of golden light upon the crystal 
peaks of the distant mountains ; and oft had he 
watched the shadows deepen o’er the sleeping valley, 
which lay at his feet, stretching far to the north and 
south. So to one who was accustomed to the chang- 
ing scenes of the golden sunset amid mountain fast- 
ness, there was not fascination enough to divorce the 
silent figure from thoughts unmixed with the imme- 
diate surroundings — thoughts which seriously held 
him within their grasp, as by enchantment. 

Deeper and darker grow the shadows all up and 
down the valley, until the most familiar objects can 
no longer be discerned with certainty. The distant 

7 


prologue 


church spire, though white as Carrara, has mingled 
her purity with the mists of the surrounding shad- 
ows, and now the only object to be distinguished is 
the lofty mountain peak, whose sparkling crest still 
holds communion with the light of day. 

Up from the darkness of the valley comes a breath 
of autumn, creeping first where the shades are deep- 
est, feeling its way cautiously but surely, as silently it 
wends o’er mountain glade and glen, but unnoticed 
by the silent dreamer, whose intense earnestness has 
immuned him against the evening chill, for he has 
not moved or changed his position, but remains im- 
movable and fixed like a statue. 

Is he held by a dream of youth, or boyish fancy? 
Is he building castles, or is he brooding over some 
imaginary wrong, for which he is working out the 
full measure of revenge? Perhaps it is the first love 
storm that has wrecked him upon the rocks of dis- 
appointment. 

The spell at last is broken, and now he looks down 
in the valley, but look earnestly as he may not a 
single object responds to his searching inquiry, and 
the most familiar things assume grotesque and fan- 
tastic forms. The picturesque rocks are metamor- 
phosed into gigantic monsters, and sublime nature 
wears the garb of awful forebodings. 

There alone, seated upon a huge boulder, far above 
the roadway, Arthur St. Clair, like Prometheus bound, 
waits ready to burst into a realm of joy at the first 
gleam of light that should come forth through the 
gloom of shadows, from a point far down the valley. 

At last, there! there! a faint gleaming ray of light 
burst forth on the wings of night, from where Arthur 
8 


'Ptologuc 

has long been expecting it. Faint and modest, ’tis 
true, scarcely discernible, but quite sufficient for a 
message of love, and to the one who understood it all, 
it was a world of light. Two hearts separated by 
family feuds beat as one. Virginia Luwalling, with 
a burning faggot, had made the sign of a circle, 
which conveyed the message to Arthur that her love 
for him was without end. 

A maiden fair with hazel eyes 

Stood near her father’s open door. 

While all around the evening skies 
Cast their gloomy shadows o’er; 

And with a faggot, its light portend, 

A circle, round and true. 

As across the gulch and over the glen. 

Its burning blaze as quickly flew; 

A loving message it did send. 

That her love for him was without end. 


9 



Arthur St. Clair of Old 
Fort Recovery 

CHAPTER I 

MOTHER AND SON 

One autumn evening, in a small, neat cottage amid, 
the mountains of New York State, sat a middle-aged 
lady by an open fireplace. The wood burned and 
sent forth a soft mellow light, and in this warmth 
and glow, she rocked back and forth, in deep medi- 
tation. Her thoughts, whatever they were, at the 
sound of approaching footsteps, ceased, and she 
waited and listened to ascertain the visitor. And 
noting that it was her own son, she accosted him 
with her usual familiar salutation: 

'Ts that you, Arthur?” 

''Yes, mother.” 

"I am glad that you have come, for I have been 
waiting for your return that we might have a bite of 
supper and cup of tea. Where have you been, my 
son? I just suspect that you have been up at Big 
Rock, gazing over toward Old Jim Luwalling’s.” 

"You are quite right, my dear mother, in your 
II 


actftut %>t Clair 

guessing ; but I am afraid that I shall never be able to 
get any closer to them than Big Rock. There seems 
to be an indescribable something, an immovable bar- 
rier between us, which I cannot locate, nor even 
fathom. How I wish that I might know why it is 
so, and what it is all about. It seems strange to me, 
indeed. Everybody says that Luwalling is a good 
man, and why his friendship should be so rigidly 
withheld from you and me, mother, I cannot under- 
stand. I am sure that you have never done him any 
harm, and I know of nothing, which I have ever said, 
at which he could take offense. There must be some 
harm, and I know of nothing which I have ever said at 
which he could take the least offense. There must be 
some deep-seated grievance, a malice of old standing, 
buried beneath the lapse of other years, but not so 
deeply but what its grinning visage is constantly with 
us.'' 

“There ! There, my son ! You are running away 
with yourself. You know, I have promised that I 
would tell you some day the secret of the discord 
between Luwalling and ourselves, but I cannot do 
so now. Some time I shall tell you the story of all 
our wrongs, but not to-night. It is quite a long nar- 
rative, and I have not the heart to take up the theme 
this evening. I am also fearful that when I shall 
have told you your young mind will be fired with the 
flame of revenge, for which I shall have cause to 
regret. I should much rather that you would not 
allow Luwallings to come into your thoughts at all; 
and, by excluding them, you would not be desirous 
to have me unfold to you that which has been a 
12 


ffl)f 2DID jFott Kecotjetp 


sealed volume for a great many years, although by 
no means forgotten.’^ 

“This, my dear mother, cannot be. It is quite im- 
possible for me to keep out of mind those who so 
much interest me. To drive them away is useless, 
for they come scampering back again — constantly re- 
turning. Is there no way, mother, in which our dif- 
ferences, whatever they are, can be settled?’’ 

“I suspect that there is no possible means of ad- 
justing the existing conditions. However, some day 
it will all be settled. Time smooths out the furrowed 
frown of malice, and dissipates our deepest malevo- 
lence. So some time you will know the facts, and 
then you can form your own opinion, and perchance 
it may devolve upon you to reunite the once strong 
bonds of friendship that were shattered by an awful 
and dreadful wrong. Deep seated is the grievance 
and well and firmly burned into the heart by the 
iron of hatred, but you, my son, may find a way by 
which the clouds of discord can be dispelled. How- 
ever, I’ll warrant that you will no doubt find Jim 
Luwalling will be against you to the last, and will not 
listen to your overtures of peace. But whatever you 
may do, guard the good name of your father, and 
make no compromise that will bring reproach upon 
yourself or taint the name of St. Clair.” 

“Virginia Luwalling, as I hear, is a model young 
lady and very beautiful. It has been years since I 
saw her, but I remember when she was quite a small 
girl that she ofttimes came with her father to our 
house. She was at that tender age a very sensible 
child, pretty and obedient, and she and you, Arthur, 

13 


attljut Clait 


were quite fond of each other, and Fll guess Auntie 
still remembers your childish pranks and ” 

'‘Lawd bress yo’, Honey, Ah guess Ah does, and Ah 
done won’t fohgot ’em vahy soon neever!” spoke 
Aunt Chloe. 

“Why, Honey, when you’s two all done go ridin’ 
on dem dah big, little old, young, Sheplum ponies. 
Ah wah jis afeerd yoah gwine to ride right ober me, 
und Ah most sprained mah hind ankle trying to get 
out ob de road. But dem dah days ain’t no moah 
now, and Ah specs dah ain’t gwine be any moah 
veah soon, not foah me. Ah am most suah ’bout dat. 

“Say, Honey ! One day Ah disremember dat youah 
and Jinnie jis corn’d riding as fas’ as yo’ could com’, 
und yo’ pony done stumble an’ fall down, und Jinnie 
she wah so close hind yo’ she could not stop h’ah 
pony, and so boaf of dem piled up dah, and it jis 
look pow’ful scanlus foah a while. Oh! Ah jis done 
got de pal’pation of de ha’t so bad Ah could’n scarcely 
walk, and Ah nebber zacly got ober it, leastways Ah 
feel pow’ful fluttahin’ on mah right side whenebber 
Ah’s scha’ed. 

“Say, Honey, when yoah ponies done fall down we 
all jist s’posed yo’ wah bof killed dead, and Ah done 
tried to run wah you wah, but Ah dis could’n move 
a step, till Ah seed yo’, Mas’r Artie, jump up and 
Jinnie she done got up and corn’d runnin’ and laffin’ 
like she wah jist tickle to def. 

“Dem wah suah ’nuff happy days. But Ah don’t 
spec ebbah to see no moah sich good times. Ah jist 
tole yoah Mas’r Artie dah ain’t bin no big ’mount sun- 
shine ebber since yoah foddah and Jim Lu wallin’ done 
went away wid dat big drove ob cattle and ” 

14 


flPf flPlD jFott Rccotietg 

“There now, Aunt Chloe, that will do. I much pre- 
fer that you would not be telling Arthur anything 
about such matters.’^ 

“Go on, Auntie, I am just dying to hear you tell 
it all,'’ says Arthur." 

“No! no! 'tain’t nuffin. Ah hain't said a woud." 

“Please, mother, let Auntie tell me all she can, and 
then you can tell me the rest." 

“Shuah nuff, Ahtie, Ah done know nuffin' at all 
to tell yo'." 

“Mother, please tell about my father and all about 
our past life. I want to know it all — the whole story. 
I can just remember my father, and it is only from 
you that I may expect to learn more about him." 

“You are quite right, my son, and it is but natural 
that you should desire to know something of your 
father." 

“I wish you would tell me all you can, every 
little thing about ourselves, and all about the Luwall- 
ings. I am quite old enough and should know the 
past, that I may better govern myself in the future. 
I must know it! I cannot wait! And if you do not 
tell me, mother, I will bribe Aunt Chloe to tell me." 

“No, sah! No, indeed, chile! Dah am no bribin' 
in dah :case. When missum done say not to tell yo' 
nuffin, den yoah see Ah knows no moah dan an 
ostah." 

“I am very glad. Aunt Chloe, that you have re- 
garded my wishes in this matter, for I want to tell 
Arthur myself, lest he should get a wrong impres- 
sion, and this I mean to do within a fortnight." 

“Why not to-morrow, mother? It is Sunday, and 
a most favorable time, I am sure." 

15 


attftut %)U Claft 

‘‘Very well, my son, if I am not feeling too poorly, 
I shall undertake to tell you something, at least, if not 
all. I trust I shall please you, Arthur, by fulfilling 
my oft-repeated promise, and I hope I shall not dese- 
crate the Sabbath by so doing.” 

“Oh! thank you, mother! Thank you!” and rising 
from his seat in the chimney corner, Arthur St. Clair 
strode across the room to his mother, and stooping 
down pressed upon her forehead a fervent kiss. 

“Good night, mother! Good night. Aunt Chloe!” 
And with these words Arthur climbed the stairs to 
his own room to dream of the morrow. 


CHAPTER II 

AUNT CHLOE^S FORTUNE-TELLING 

The next morning was Sunday, and it was Arthur^s 
birthday. He was eighteen years old, strong, muscu- 
lar and rugged; of good habits and excellent deport- 
ment. A widowed mother’s hope and pride, in whom 
she saw the perfect type of manhood. 

He was very fond of athletics and excelled all his 
playmates in outdoor exercises practised by the 
youths of that day. In running and vaulting he was 
superior to any of his companions, and accepted all 
challenges, in which he was an easy victor. Standing 
nearly six feet tall, straight as an arrow, a perfect 
specimen of human strength and form. 

This morning Arthur had risen at his accustomed 
hour, and went out in a drizzling rain, which was 
falling with steady downpour, to do some chores. 
i6 


ffl)f flPlD jFott IRccotictg 

Returning to the house in a short time he found Old 
Aunt Chloe waiting for him, with a pan of hot bis- 
cuits and a pot of hot coffee singing a merry song on 
a bed of coals in the fireplace. Soon he and the 
good old colored woman were engaged in a pleasant 
conversation. 

“Auntie, this is a dreadful day, and I am ’most 
afraid that I shall be compelled to remain indoors all 
day.” 

“Hit dun look dat way. Honey, suah nuff. Hit sut- 
tenly am scanlus bad weddah, and Ah spec yo’ hab 
t’ stay in. My, hit dun mak’ my old rumatiz hu’t 
mos’ pow’ful.” 

“Where is mother? Isn’t she coming to her break- 
fast ?” 

“No, Honey, she dun sed doan feel berry well dis 
mohnin’, and fo’ you to skuse her dis time. Sot right 
down heah, Mastah Artie, by de fire, case yoah close 
am mos’ pow’ful wet.” 

“Alright, Auntie. My, those biscuits are fine !” 

“Yo’ all bettah hab a cup of coffee dis mohnin’, 
hit’ll make yo’ wahm and may be Ah’s gwine tell yo’ 
foshen wid de grounds.” 

“Now, Auntie, if you will do so. I’ll drink a cup of 
coffee, and perhaps two or three of them. But you 
must tell me something about the past and about our 
old plantation home in Virginia. This I would much 
rather know than all you can tell me about the 
future.” 

“Why, chile, de coffy grounds don’t feay nuffin’ 
’bout de pas’; dey am all ’bout de fushure. You see. 
Honey, dah am no anxcesity foah prognosticatin’ on 
what am done already happen, but hit am de things 

17 


3tt{)ur St.’ Clait 


what’s gwine to come to pass dat de grounds tell 
’bout. Yoah muddah she gwine told yo’ ’bout de pas’ 
an’ Ah spec she gwine told you dis mohnin.” 

‘‘Did she say so last night, Auntie?” 

“She done said she gwine tell yo’ and hain’t gwine 
to chu’ch dis mohnin’, so she’ll hab de time to-day.” 

“Well, now. Auntie, I have gotten on the outside 
of three tups of your coffee, and I wish you would 
look into that cup, and tell me what you can see in 
there besides the grounds. Tell me all you can. I 
want to know it all.” 

“Dis am suttenly most pow’ful scanlus. Ah done 
sca’cely see whah to commence readin’. Well, dat 
am suhly som’thin’ sim’lar, case ebber time Ah turns 
dis heah cup around Ah done see moah and moah, 
dat am suttenly cuyous. Now, Honey, Ah show yo’. 
You see dem dah people what’s jis kin’ o’ wa’kin’ ’long 
dah? Well dem’s sojahs, and dem folks what’s 'cornin’ 
down dis heah way and meetin’ des udder sojahs, 
dem peers like Hinjuns, and Ah wou’d’n be s’prized 
if dey dun hab trouble,, and sumbuddy gwine git 
hurt. 

“My Ian, chile, heah am a so j ah’s cap und unicohn, 
and yo’ gwine to be a so] ah. Ah’s most suah. Now, 
jis looken obeah heah. Honey. See dem what’s all 
standin’ up? Well, dah am three of dem, and yo’ am 
one of dem. Ah ’low ; and hit am a weddin’ suah as you 
am bohn. Yas, sir; dat am de truf. Yo’ gwine go’en 
to got marrah’d and you am gwine to be a sojah!” 

“Oh, Auntie, you are so funny, and your fortune- 
telling is quite interesting; but I can hardly believe 
that all you have seen in the cup will come true.” 

“Why, ’deed, chile. Ah done told yo’ de truf. De 
i8 


ffl)f DID Jfort Becotietg . — 

grounds am suah, an dey can’t tell nuffin else but de 
truf, case, Honey, dey done know no bettah. But 
dis heah on dis side de cup am sum pusson wa’kin’ 
jis like he be gone fo’ a long time an’ was jis com’en 
back, an’ jis look’en round like he wah los’ or sum- 
then, an’ Ah spec dat am yo’ faddah.” 

“Oh! my, auntie, you have told me a great deal; 
but I have much misgiving about any of it ever com- 
ing true. For the present I am more interested in the 
past, and when once I am acquainted with that 
which has transpired I shall try and govern myself 
accordingly.” 

“'Yes, dat am so. Honey. Ah guess, chile, dat Ah 
done go an’ call yo’ muddah and see if she gwine git 
up and hab some breakfast.” And across the room 
to Mrs. St. Clair’s chamber she slowly shambled. 

“Oh, Missum, am yo’ gwine to git up and hab some 
bre’kfas’?” 

“Yes, Chloe, I am coming. You may make me a 
cup of tea and poach an egg, if you please, and I’ll 
be there directly.” 

Arthur sat drying his clothes by the kitchen fire 
while waiting for his mother, whom he was anxious 
to see. It was only a moment, however, when she 
came into the room looking a little paler than usual. 

“Good morning, my son ! How are you ?” 

“Very well, thank you; and how are you feeling 
this morning, mother?” 

“Not so well. I did not rest last night as I usually 
do, and I find that I am a little nervous, but it is only 
a slight matter, and will wear off after a while.” 

“You are quite pale, mother; is there anything 
worrying you?” 


19 


gttfiuc %)t> Clait 

‘‘No, my son, there is nothing unusual, although my 
rest was very much disturbed last night by the winds 
blowing through the trees and the raindrops pelting 
against the window-panes. I managed to get a little 
sleep, and will be my usual self by dinner time. The 
weather is very inclement, and I shall not go to 
church to-day. 

“Auntie, you may give me another cup of tea, and 
butter one more hot biscuit for me.” 

“Yas, Honey, heah am de tea bilen hot, and heah 
am de biscuit wif de buttah all meltin’ on de een- 
side.” 

Mrs. St. Clair finished her meal and seemed to en- 
joy it, and then turning to Arthur said: 

“If you will excuse me, my son, I shall lie down 
for a little while, and see if I cannot sleep off a dull 
headache, which is troubling me some.” 

“Certainly, mother! Do lie down, for I know you 
will feel better after you have taken a nap.” 

“Arthur, do you know what day this is?” 

“Why, yes, it is Sunday, mother, of course; but 
why do you ask? Oh, I know what you mean, it is 
my birthday, and I am eighteen years old to-day.” 

“Dat’s right, suah nuff. Led me see, six and five 
am foteen an three am eighteen. Yas, sar, dat am 
right. Yo’ am eighteen years old to-day. Honey, and 
yo’ Old Aunt Chloe am gwine to hab a dinnah fo’ yo’ 
dat’ll be mos’ pow’ful good — yas, good nuff foah 
Gen’l Wash’ton.” 

“Very well, Chloe, you may do as you like about 
preparing a dinner, and as Arthur and I have some 
matters about which we want to talk I shall allow 


20 


SDf iRecouetp 


you to arrange just what you want, and hope you may 
succeed in surprising us most agreeably.’* 

“Ah am suttenly gwine to s’prize yo’ all dis heah 
time wid an old-fash’en V’gina dinnah.” 

“Very well, Chloe. Now, Arthur, I shall lie down 
for a while and then we will take up the story of our 
past lives, and go over them together, until you have 
heard it all.” 

“Oh, thank you, mother. I am so anxious to hear 
you tell it that I can hardly find the patience to wait.” 

After reposing in quiet rest for an hour or so, Mrs. 
St. Clair arose much refreshed. By this time Aunt 
Chloe was singing an old plantation melody with all 
the expression that soul and happiness could put in 
it, and it was the best evidence in the world that the 
dinner was moving along at a good gait. 

Arthur was ready and anxious to have his mother 
commence the narrative without delay, and having 
heard her walking around in her room he called to 
her, inquiring if she was feeling any better, and re- 
ceiving the assurance that she was much improved, 
he waited a moment longer, when his mother ap- 
peared and began : 

“You will find it quite a long story, and I am most 
sure that you will have grown tired of it ere it is fin- 
ished. I shall be as brief as I can, giving such detail 
as I can remember.” 


21 


attijur Claft' 


CHAPTER III 

A NARRATIVE 

son, I shall begin my narrative by going back 
to Old Virginia, the dearest place in all the world to 
me, the very thoughts of which almost move me to 
tears. It was here I first met and became acquainted 
with your father, and I never knew but little of his 
people. His father and mother lived some distance 
from our plantation, and they at one time owned many 
slaves, all of whom were manumitted at the old gen- 
tleman’s death. His reason for so doing was the fear 
that they might be sold to the parties who would not 
treat them as he believed they should be. Aunt Chloe 
was one of their slaves, but she refused to leave the 
family, and always said that she would stay with the 
St. Clairs as long as they would keep her. A short 
time after the death of your grandfather St. Clair I 
became acquainted with an army officer in this way : 

“During the War of the Revolution General Wash- 
ington came down into our part of the country with 
his army and made his headquarters at our house. I 
remember the incident as though it were yesterday, 
and it savors a little of romance. Our house stood 
back quite a distance from the main road, and one 
day my mother and I were sitting on the old portico 
and our attention was attracted by a body of troops 
passing along the highway in plain view, and as we 
sat there watching them, we were wondering what it 
all meant. Engrossed in the subject of war and still 


22 



'n 

^ I 

% •••« 



I 



The Old Plantation Home. 

(Arthur St. Clair.)— P. 22, 




1 




• , 


1 















'si 






1 V 1 > 

§ 








©f ©10 jFott Recotoetp 


watching them, as they slowly moved along, we no- 
ticed mounted men approaching the residence, riding 
at a sharp trot up the broad gravelly way, whom we 
took to be officers of the army. 

‘‘Without halting their steeds they rode quite up to 
where we were sitting before dismounting. What 
gallant-looking men they were, with cockade, sabre 
and trappings, gold epaulets and a profusion of braid. 
I shall never forget the impression, and as they ad- 
vanced on foot, mother and I arose to meet them. 
The officer in advance politely lifted his beaver, and 
with a friendly, courteous salutation informed us that 
he was General Washington; that the gentlemen ac- 
companying him were his aides; and that they would 
like very much to make their headquarters at our 
house for a few days, at least, if it would not incon- 
venience us too much. 

“My mother very cordially extended her hand to 
to the General with a reply: ‘You are quite welcome, 
and if you can content yourselves with our bill of 
fare we shall find it a pleasure to extend to you the 
hospitality of such as we have. Mr. Allen is away 
from home for the present, but I feel assured that he 
would be delighted to receive you if he were here.’ 
To this General Washington answered: ‘I thank you 
very kindly, Mrs. Allen, for this manifestation of in- 
terest in our welfare, and assure the appreciation of 
such kindness cannot be expressed in words.’ 

“My mother, turning to me, said: ‘This is my 
daughter. General Washington, and not being accus- 
tomed to meet such noted gentlemen I was much em- 
barrassed. The General extended his hand, and with 
a merry twinkle in his eye and a smile upon his lips, 

23 


3ttt)ur ^t» Clatc 

took my hand in his, and holding it for a moment, 
said : ‘I am delighted to know you, Miss Allen, and 
hope you will not become frightened at us. True, we 
are soldiers, but we are not waging war against the 
daughters of the land, at least those who seem so 
friendly to us as you and your good mother have 
been. 

“ ‘However, here is my young friend. Major St. 
Clair, who is better posted upon all subjects interest- 
ing to ladies than I am, and I promise you’ll find him 
quite willing to enter upon the discussion at once. 

“ ‘Major St. Clair, this is Miss Allen, our host’s 
daughter. Doubtless you can convince Miss Allen 
that you are fighting in a good cause.’ 

“By this time I was greatly embarrassed — so much 
so that I cannot remember what, if anything, that I 
said in reply. The other aide seeing what was com- 
ing, followed the servants to the stables, and my 
mother led the way into the front parlor. 

“Our house was quite large, containing a great 
number of rooms, well lighted and splendidly fur- 
nished. Through the building from the front to the 
rear ran a great broad hallway, both below and above, 
from which all the rooms could be entered. Near the 
centre of the hallway arose a broad, old-fashioned 
staircase, with its great newel post, and hand-carved 
balusters, with wide easy steps. 

“This work was all done in Merry Old England, so 
legend has it, and brought to this country by one of 
our early ancestors, and was the pride of our family. 
The sleeping apartments were all on the second floor, 
and were large and well-lighted rooms. In the front 
part of the house, and directly over the drawing-room, 
24 


Df SDID jFott Kecoijctp 


was a large chamber to which were attached two 
smaller ones, forming a suite. My room was just 
across the hall from the large one. All our servants 
were colored, who had their apartments in a separate 
building from the main residence. 

“Upon entering the parlor we waited until the Gen- 
eral and Major were seated, when my mother called 
a servant, and gave directions concerning our guests’ 
rooms. Then calling another, he soon returned with 
a pitcher of sparkling spring water and a tray of 
glasses. General Washington was quite thirsty, and 
regaled himself with a second glass. 

“We chatted pleasantly for some little time, when 
my mother arose and announced that the rooms were 
ready, saying: ‘You are evidently quite weary, and 
the march this hot, dusty day has greatly fatigued 
you, and a little rest will be much appreciated. My 
servant here will direct you to your rooms, and re- 
member we dine at six o’clock, sharp.’ 

“General Washington arose and advanced to the 
hallway, and pausing with his hat in hand and sabre 
across his arm, replied : T thank you, Mrs. Allen, and 
I assure you the hour named will suit our convenience, 
and it shall be our pleasure to govern ourselves ac- 
cordingly.’ With this they slowly ascended the great 
stairway to their rooms. 

“No sooner had they gone than I hastened to my 
own chamber to arrange my toilet for the dinner, 
which I knew would be ready in an hour. Looking 
in the glass I was greatly surprised to see my cheeks 
in a deep crimson blush, but I thought it was on ac- 
count of the excitement occasioned by the incidents 
just passed, and hurried on with my preparation, for 

25 


attftuc Clatc 

I knew my mother would not permit me to keep the 
dinner waiting. 

"‘I could not help pausing now and then to think 
of General Washington and Major Somebody, whose 
name I could not call, for I did not understand it. 
Major was as far as I could get. Then I would com- 
pare him with General Washington. He is not quite 
so commanding as the General, nor not so handsome, 
but he is — yes, I am sure he is quite handsome. Upon 
repeating this to myself several times, I chanced to 
look into my mirror and I discovered that my face was 
still as red as the rose, and as I stood there meditat- 
ing, I heard my mother calling for me. Opening my 
room door I observed a servant, and bade her to take 
the word that I would be down presently, and for her 
to return and assist me in dressing. 

‘‘Yes, my boy, that old blue silk dress you have ob- 
served hanging on the wall in my room is the very 
one that I wore that day. It was a favorite of your 
father’s, and for that reason I have always prized it 
so dearly. 

“Finishing my toilet I hastened below, and out to 
the wild rosebush, and pinning a cluster of beauties 
on my bosom, I ran to my mother and found her in 
the dining room, directing the servants in the finish- 
ing touches of the dinner. ‘There, I guess everything 
is now ready,’ my mother said. Just then the old 
English clock in the hallway began the tolling of the 
hour of six. A hasty inspection of the table satisfied 
myself that nothing had been left undone in its prepa- 
ration, and I turned to my mother, and said, ‘I wonder 
if the General will keep us waiting?’ But she assured 
me that our guests being military men they were 
26 


iSPlD JFott RccoUctg 

doubtless accustomed to severe discipline, and exact- 
ing promptness. This was quite true, for on opening 
the folding doors leading into and connecting the 
drawing and dining room, we found them waiting 
for us. ‘Well, General Washington, I see that you 
have kept the hour with precision,’ said my mother. 

“ ‘Yes, Mrs. Allen, we will try to conform to the 
rules of your very excellent home; as officers, who 
are in the habit of giving commands, must also learn 
to obey the orders of their superiors. We are there- 
fore at your pleasure.’ 

“ ‘Thank you. General ; I guess we shall get along 
nicely, and you may be seated here on my right. Major, 
you may take your place beside your commander, and, 
daughter, you may sit opposite the gentlemen. As 
Mr. Allen is absent, I shall preside over the dinner.’ 

“My mother was accustomed, in the absence of my 
father, to drop her head and offer a blessing, and this 
she would do, no matter who was at the table, and 
accordingly we paused and listened for her words, 
which were very touching, and made an impression 
on General Washington. 

“ ‘Blessed Father, upon these simple bodily refresh- 
ments we humbly ask thy blessing. May thy guiding 
hand point the way that will lead our distinguished 
guests to victory over our country’s enemies. Protect 
the absent one, and bless us all, and may we come 
within thy promised eternal bliss. Amen.’ 

“I thought I saw in General Washington’s face 
some evidence that the blessing or its delivery had 
touched a responsive chord, but the shadow passed 
away in a moment, and soon we were engrossed in 
an animated conversation. My mother was one of 
27 


attftuc Claft 


those good souls that made everybody feel easy and 
comfortable in her presence, with a fund of wit and 
humor that always set the table in a roar. The dinner 
was most enjoyable, and General Washington and the 
Major waded into it ‘like a bound boy at a huskin/ 
Sitting across the table from the Major, a sea of 
snowy whiteness between, I occasionally caught a pair 
of inquisitive optics watching me, and I blushed more 
than once to find myself an object of so much in- 
terest. 

“After the dinner we all went out on the broad old 
veranda, the evening was pleasant and balmy, and 
for more than an hour we were deeply engaged in a 
tete-a-tete. My mother and General Washington kept 
up a running fire of questions and answers, and from 
what I heard she was quite anxious to get his opinion 
of the result of the war with England. To be sure the 
Major and I were quite busily employed on divers 
subjects apropos of the times. 

“We were thus engaged for only a moment, it seemed 
to me, but, of course, it was much longer, when Gen- 
eral Washington arose, advancing toward us, and 
kindly begged pardon, saying: ‘That he had his cor- 
respondence to attend to, and if we would excuse 
him he would retire. The Major seemed to not no- 
tice him, and upon reaching the hall door, he paused a 
moment and slowly turning around, facing us, said: 
‘Miss Allen, I beg pardon, but, you see. Major St. 
Clair has been installed as my official amanuensis, 
and he is so devoted to the work that he insists on 
penning all of my letters. I regret very much to dis- 
turb your enjoyment, but I fear he would feel himself 
28 


gPf f>lD JFott Eecoactg 

slighted if I should forego his services. You will, 
therefore, kindly excuse him just this once.’ 

“The General and Major bade mother and I good 
night, and slowly climbed the old oaken stairway to 
their apartments, and all was silent about the premises, 
except the singing of the darkies out in the old 
kitchen. They were in much glee and levity at hav- 
ing seen General Washington, and their merry peals 
of laughter and snatches of song and chorus made 
the old plantation ring with their melody. 


CHAPTER IV, 

WAR 

“Twilight had ceased its gentle glow, and darkness, 
settled o’er the land, and with it came a quiet still- 
ness, except now and then a strain of melody from 
the servants’ quarters, which arose and fell like an 
occasional billow on a peaceful sea. The officrs and 
soldiers had created a new theme for discussion among 
the darkies, and they were busily telling and retelling 
what they had heard and seen during the day. 

“There also floated in through my open window 
the sweet song of the mocking bird, who had builded 
his nest for years in the branches of a fine old locust 
tree that stood just out in front of the house. From 
this place of retreat he made the balmy evening me- 
lodious with his soft and gentle notes, and oft have I 
fallen asleep listening to his gentle song. 

“But on this evening I was too much engrossed with 
29 


attftur Clatt 


other subjects to be wooed to sleep by his low, sweet 
strains. The excitement of the afternoon had some- 
what confused me, in fact, I was not a little nervous, 
and I was anxious to get to myself and think it all 
over, and, of course, to worry more or less, which 
seems to have been a natural inheritance of woman. 
I had therefore retired unusually early to my room, 
which was just across the hall from General Wash- 
ington’s suite. 

'Tn passing along the hallway, as I went to my bed- 
chamber, I paused for a moment, which I could not 
help doing, and waited a little, and as I stood there I 
could hear the General and the Major conversing 
earnestly upon some topic, which seemed to be very 
interesting, but caught only a few words, which were 
followed, by laughter. I afterward learned from the 
Major that I was the subject of converse, and he the 
butt of a facetious little episode. Hurrying on to my 
room, with the intention of retiring at once, some- 
thing unusual called my attention to a noise on the 
outside of the house, and I went to the casement and 
liste*- ed. 

“Looking out into the darkness, until the eye be- 
came accustomed to the shadows, in the light of the 
half-full moon, I could see, or thought I could see, 
some one or some object moving to and fro. What 
was it? What did it mean? Looking intensely, I 
was able to make out they were men. I was just on 
the point of raising an alarm, when the thought 
dawned upon me that they were soldiers guarding 
our house, because the General and his aides were 
making their headquarters with us. Armed men walk- 
ing here and there, the sentinels of the night, to watch 

30 


ffl>C DIO JFott Eecotictg 

and wait while others sleep. Military authority in- 
stalled in our own front-door yard, and over our 
home, was to me a new and interesting regime. As I 
stood there at the open window absorbed in thought, 
a soft, gentle breeze floated in through the open case- 
ment and tossed my loose, flowing hair about my 
shoulders. Its cool, refreshing breath fanned the 
crimson out of my cheeks, and allayed, in a measure, 
the day’s excitement. As I looked out in the dark- 
ness, watching the sentinels move to and fro, T be- 
came interested and absorbed in the thoughts of war. 

“Looking far into the shades of the night, and over 
to the east, where stretched a strip of woods, skirt- 
ing the main highway, I observed many little fires 
burning among the trees — camp fires where the sol- 
diers had bivouacked. General Washington’s men had 
taken up their position just east of our house, on the 
lands of a neighbor, and as I watched the dim lights, 
I could see men walking around, and at times their 
fires seemed to blaze up brightly, and what showers 
of sparks would fly upward when fresh fuel was fed 
to the flames. At times, when their fires burned up 
considerably, the great trunks of the majestic old 
trees stood up like mighty giants, stretching out their 
limbs like the arms of a colossus. When the blaze 
would lessen, the shadows deepened, and the outline 
of the timber became indistinct, assuming forms gro- 
tesque and fanciful. 

“Thus I waited at the casement, watching the lights 
and shadows come and go, breathing in the night air, 
and contemplating the carnage, the suffering, the ruin 
that must dwell in the wake of war; of the fathers, 
sons and loved ones that must be sacrificed; of the 

31 


artfiut Clai't 


homes that are broken up, and the widows and or- 
phans to dwell in a house of sorrow all their days. 

“These and many similar thoughts came into my 
mind, until I was greatly agitated and worried, and 
was almost on the point of assuming an attitude 
which would doubtless seem ridiculous and impolitic. 
This war must be averted ; the killing must be 
stopped; the flow of human blood must be stanched. 
I shall go at once and inform General Washington 
and the Major that the business in which they are en- 
gaged was not at all to my approval. This resolu- 
tion, however, had not received the confirmation of 
a second thought ere I changed my mind, knowing, of 
course, that the war could not be averted by my lone 
opinion, and that they would not give credence to 
what I should say. I, therefore, began to harmonize 
myself, and reason it out to my own satisfaction. 

“On one side was the awful thought of war and 
bloodshed, while on the other hand there was the bur- 
den of the wrongs which the mother country had 
done her colonies. The memory of these direful 
grievances enkindled the fires of patriotism, and 
touched the heart of one who loved her home and 
country, and who was willing to make any sacrifice 
that they might be free. I soon appreciated the fact, 
through this line of reasoning, that there was no other 
way to meet England’s haughty insults, except at the 
point of the bayonet. Meet them and their armed 
minions at the threshold of our country, with bloody 
hands, and drive them back upon the wave until the 
last armed foe expires. 

“When I had finished this last throb of patriotism, 
I discovered that my fists were clenched, and I could 

32 


flPf jFott Eecoaetg 

feel my very blood tingling with an animation that 
brooked no fear. And as I meditated, first in pity, 
then in anger, over the condition of the people of 
dear Old Virginia, and calling to mind the sincere 
earnestness of General Washington, I could not help 
devoutly and enthusiastically breathing a silent prayer 
for his success and safety. 

'‘From all that I had thought, dreamed and felt, 
I concluded by force of reasoning that if there was 
ever a time when war was justifiable — if ever the 
sword should be unsheathed — if ever these instru- 
ments of extermination should not be beaten into 
plowshares, it was in the case of our colonies. If 
ever the shedding of human blood could be atoned 
for, we were certainly able to render a satisfactory 
account of our stewardship. 

“Perhaps the Master may have had our people in 
mind when he said to his disciples: 

“ ‘But when ye shall hear of wars and commotions 
be not terrified, for these things must come to pass.^ 

“In spite of myself I became greatly interested in 
the subject of war, and the success of our armies. 

“Again looking over where the army lay en- 
camped, all was dark and silent. Not a light could 
be seen, not a voice could be heard. More than a 
thousand brave and noble sons were soundly sleep- 
ing, little dreaming of the dangers awaiting them, 
ready to lay down their lives that their country 
might be free. Poor, brave sons of liberty, will their 
great sacrifice ever be fully appreciated? To sur- 
render upon the altar of patriotism everything to 
which they could lay claim, in order that another 
might be free seemed an incomparable sacrifice. Poor 

33 


3tt6ut @it. Clait 


fellows, how I felt for them, and the best that I could 
do, I was constrained to conclude, that the debt of 
gratitude we owe those who have given up their lives 
for us cannot and never will be paid. 

“Retracing my steps from the window, and lying 
down on the snow-white bed, I listened a moment 
to the low, gentle warble of my dear old bird friend, 
and as his notes grew softer and fainter, I fell into 
a peaceful slumber from which I was wakened by the 
call of a servant. Hurriedly arranging my toilet and 
putting on a creamy white dress, I tripped lightly 
down the stairs and out on the broad veranda. Here 
I was cordially greeted by our soldier guests. After 
breakfast was over their horses were brought from 
the stables, and with many adieus they mounted and 
rode away. The Major, however, remaining a mo- 
ment to say good-bye, and to assure me of his return 
soon. Yes, he came again and again, for he was 
your father.’^ 

“Right ye ar’r, Misees St. Clar,’" says Tim Hogan, 
who had come to pay them a visit, which was his 
custom of doing once or twice a year. “Right ye 
ar’r, Misees St. Clar, un the loiks of th’ Major nivT 
stood in shoe leather since the days of Ould Saint 
Patrick. It’s mesilf, lad, thet knew yir father, und 
Oi be after layin’ me hands on inny wan thet ’ud say 
a wur-r-d ag’in him.” 


34 


S)f ©ID JFott KccoDetp 


CHAPTER V 

A MYSTERY UNSOLVED 

‘'After your father and I were married he came to 
our house and disposed of his own plantation, which 
did not bring him very much after the payment of the 
debts against it. My father’s health being very poor, 
the business affairs were all turned over to your 
father. Aunt Chloe came with him from his old 
home, and has been with us ever since. Timothy 
here came with your father from the army, and has 
ever since been a good and faithful friend. How we 
could have gotten along without him I shall never 
know.” 

“Sur’r, mum, Oi stood wid de Maj’r at Benningt’n 
and Sar’tog, und all thr’u’ de war, un sur’r Oi sthand 
wid yees now,” says Timothy. 

“Soon after your father took charge of our planta- 
tion he became acquainted with James Lu walling, and 
this acquaintanceship soon ripened into friendship. 
They were together the most of their spare time, and 
were about the same age, and so far as I could see got 
along very agreeably. When one had an errand to 
the county seat, the other was sure to accompany on 
horseback. This friendly relation became a bond of 
continuity, and held them even in their business rela- 
tion, and in a small way they began buying and rais- 
ing cattle. This business seemed profitable, and their 
investments were augmented, until it became neces- 
sary to mortgage our plantation to raise funds to 
carry out our part of the proposition. Luwalling was 

35 


artbur Clait 


a man of considerable means, and had finances not 
only for his part of the investment, but also loaned 
your father considerable money from time to time, 
taking a mortgage on our home for his security. 

“This seemed satisfactory, and bid fair to develop 
into an Eldorado of wealth, and for several years mat- 
ters went along very nicely, and we were very happy. 
Your father was always good and kind to me, gratify- 
ing my every wish and whim; patiently listening to 
my advice and answering my many foolish questions. 
Oh, my son, we were so very agreeable and happy, 
that life seemed one continued song of love. 

“The cattle business had grown to larger propor- 
tions, and a greater mortgage had been executed in 
order to carry matters along until we should be able to 
take the stock to the market. I worried a great deal, 
fearing that something might happen to them; that 
they might contract some disease and all die, that 
something might occur by which we would lose our 
old homestead. After worrying much I finally pre- 
vailed upon your father and Luwalling to sell them 
and thus relieve me of the mental anxiety. 

“At last the day came that had been agreed upon 
for their delivery, and the servants about our planta- 
tion and those of Luwalling’s were busy rounding 
them up, and driving them out into the great highway 

leading down toward the town of N , where they 

were to be delivered to an English gentleman, and 
loaded on a vessel for England. There was hurrying 
to and fro, cracking and snapping of cattle whips; 
running of horses, lowing of cattle, and a great deal 
of loud talk, punctuated now and then with an oath. 
It was a grand sight, and one which I shall never 

36 


SDf 2DID JTott Kccotjcrp 


forget. You were away from home, my son, and 
did not return until later. 

“At last all was ready, and they moved down the 
road, making clouds of dust, which at times almost 
enveloped them. Your father and Lu walling brought 
up the rear, with Timothy riding along at their side 
to look after many little details, and help them with 
the cattle until they reached a certain point in the 
road, where it was thought there might be some 
trouble in passing. They were gone some hours, when 
Timothy returned, and reported everything going 
all right. My ! how relieved I was to get this matter 
all off my mind. 

“I believe, Timothy, you and I tried to figure up 
what our share of the cattle would amount to, but our 
calculations were somewhat speculative. We also 
tried to determine just when your father and Lu wall- 
ing would return, and whether or not you should go 
and meet them, Timothy, knowing that they would 
have a large sum of money to bring back with them. 
But after much speculation we concluded that we 
would wait until morning, then determine wh^t would 
be best to do in the matter.’' 

Just at this point Mrs. St. Clair paused for a mo- 
ment in her narration, when there came from the 
dining room Aunt Chloe’s melodious voice, and the 
way she was executing an old plantation melody, it 
was a sure indication that she was making great head- 
way with the dinner. Already Timothy had scented 
the savory meats, puddings and pastries, and he sat 
with his eyes upon the door, which he was expecting 
to open without much delay. He had not long to 
wait in order to satisfy his wish. The door flew open 

37 


gttftur ^t> Clait 

wide, and there stood the good old soul, her face black 
as ebony, but wearing a smile of self-satisfaction, that 
was worth its weight in gold. 

“Hah! Hah! Hah! Ah specs you all am mos’ 
scanlus hungry ! My Ian’ ! Hah ! Hah ! Am dat 
you all, Tim Hogan? Well, Ah suah ain’t makin’ 
much trouble foah mahse’f to keep on terms wid de 
Irish, but Ah am suttenly glad you am heah, Tim 
Hogan. My ! My ! What a dinnah — ^bress Gord ! it 
am a reg’lah old Vaginna dinnah, ebberthing good to 
eat, un lots ob it. Jis corn’d right out un sot right 
down like you wah bodahs at a bodin’ house. Mis’um, 
youse done sot down right heah; Mastah Artie ober 
dah. Hah! Hah! You, Tim Hogan, Ah see you am 
tryin’ to make de ’quaintance wif dat roas’ goose!” 

“Right yees ar’, me ould ebony friend, an’ sur-r 
Oi’ll be on sp’aken terms wid the little lady befur a 
fortnight,” says Tim, taking a seat at the middle of 
the table without waiting for Aunt Chloe’s di- 
rections, that he might command a better view of the 
surroundings, and at the same time have more room 
for action. “Oi say, Misees St. Clair, it’s well Oi be 
wid yees to-day, or sur-r who be here to disict this 
country goose?” 

“It is very kind of you, Timothy, and I hardly 
know how we could have gotten along without you 
to-day, and I am sure no one could perform this deli- 
cate operation with more skill and dexterity than 
yourself,” suggests Mrs. St. Clair. 

“Dat’s so! Dat am de troof! Ah’m mos* suah! 
Case Tim am suttenly ’quainted wid de cahvin busi- 
ness — he done ust to cahv up dah Heesions on de 

38 


2D( ©Id jFott Kecodetp 


y 

float’n’ice in de Del’wah Ribbeh, lessways, Ah done 
hu’d Majah St. Clair say so.’’ 

‘'Sur-r, mum, yer history is good, but whin Oi war 
makin’ it Oi didn’t think thin the loiks of yees would 
be trow’en hit oop to me, and be takin’ me appetite, 
for-r whin Oi’m thinkin’ of me patrotism thin Oi’d 
be foighten instid of aten.” 

'‘You must have been very brave and patriotic, Mr. 
Hogan, to go with my father to the war to fight the 
British,” says Arthur. 

This was too much for Timothy, there was some- 
thing about the young man’s question that touched 
the patriotic strings in his honest breast, and he set 
them to going. 

“Shur-r, lad, me boy, Oi can’t help it. It’s me stock 
in tr-rade. Oi’m a natr’rl patr’rot, and can’t be inny- 
thing else, if Oi would. One mahn ur a t’oushand is 
all the same to me, und if ther-rs inny diifr’ns Oi’d 
take the t’oushand, cos th’irs more fight’n in thim all,” 
says Tim. 

"Did you ever fight any Indians, Timothy?” 

"No, lad. Oi niv’r came across the pesky huds, 
but Oi’d like them, Oi know, if they lay down th’ir 
tomy’awks and come out from behint the tras and 
foight wid shelalahs, loik an honest mohn, Oi’d fight 
thim. 

"There, Mrs. Goose, yer-r car-urved oop in the lat- 
est fash’n, an’ yees smill bitter thin yees look. Have 
some of the goose, Misees St. Clair, and some of the 
dressin’. Arthur, me lad, help yirseilf, and set ir 
right down here, where we can both oper-rate upon 
the lady at shor-rt range.” 


39 


3tt{)uc Clair 

“Timothy, are you not thankful for this bountiful 
repast ?” 

“Shur-r, mum! Oi begs yir pardon. Oi for-rgot 
mesilf, but thin it’s niver too late to be thankful, and 
here’s me blessin’ : Holy St. Patrick and Virgin Mary, 
bliss all these good things to ate, give us str’ngth to 
whip our inemies, and don’t for-rg’t yir oomble sarv- 
ant, Timothy Hogan. Your-rs trooly. Amen.” 

“You say you never fought in any Indian wars, 
Timothy?” 

“No, lad, Oi niver had an op’rchoonty. Oi’d only 
want half a chance an’ Oi’d be oop an’ at thim.” 

“Well, there is a chance for you, or there soon 
will be, for I heard Old Captain Grisley talking over 
at the post office yesterday, and he said that the In- 
dians were getting troublesome way out west some- 
where, I think he said in the territories of Ohio and 
Indiana. That troops would no doubt be sent out 
there to suppress them. He also said that in several 
places the pioneers had been driven back, their homes 
burned and settlements broken up, and unless they 
were checked in their depredations, no telling what 
would happen.” 

“Ould Cap Grisley is a gr-rate soldier, and he 
knows vhat hee’s talk’n’ about. Hee’s seen lots o’ 
foight’n, but hee’s too ould fr-r the business now. 
Younger min will hav’t to do the foight’n, but whin 
Oi say Cap Oi’ll be after findin’ out the p’r’ticlars.” 

“I hope, Timothy, you would not think of going 
out west, in that far-off land and unsettled country, 
to find Indians and drive them from their hunting 
grounds, would you?” inquired Mrs. St. Qair. 

“It does look loik Oi’d be aftr’r goin’ a long dis- 
40 


SDf fl)lO jFort KecoiJetg 


tance to hunt fir somethin’ that was’n lost. But 
foighten’s me natur, an’ if Oi once get a chance Oi’ll 
soon settle wid thim.” 

“Timothy, you must not let your patriotism take 
your appetite, but just help yourself,” says Mrs. St. 
Clair. 

“Hab sum moah coffy, Ir’sh,” interrupted Aunt 
Chloe, who was on hand with a pot of hot beverage, 
the aroma of which was too inviting to be refused by 
Tim, who was now entering upon the pleasant task 
of stowing away the third cup, to the satisfaction of 
Aunt Chloe. 

While the dinner was on the subject of the narra- 
tive had for the time been dropped, but as this pleas- 
ant task was over, we shall take up the thread of our 
story, where we had laid it down. 

“Yes, Arthur, we concluded to wait until morning 
before making any arrangements for your father’s re- 
turn. The day wore off slowly and wearily, and in 
our waiting our expectations became anxiety, although 
we had no definite idea when he would return. Noon 
came, then the afternoon dragged along, its shadows 
scarcely moving, and after a while darkness ap- ' 
proached, settling down all around, and yet your fa- 
ther had not returned. How the zodiacal blaze lit the 
western sky, and I thought night would never come. 

“When the shadows did finally deepen it seemed 
darker than usual. The servants whom we had sent 
out in the afternoon, came back without any tidings. 

Although they had not gone all the way to N , 

they met the men returning, who had driven the cattle 
to market, and they also knew nothing, except they 

41 


attftur Sit. Clatr 


had left your father and Luwalling to see after load- 
ing the cattle and making settlement. 

'The night passed slowly, and I thought morning 
would never come. The hands on the dial of the old 
wooden clock, in the hallway, seemed to have gone to 
sleep. I watched and waited, started up at every lit- 
tle noise, even the rustle of the leaves of the old maple 
and locusts gave cause of alarm. Sometimes I could 
hear the sound of horses hoofs on the hard gravelly 
roadway, leading up from the main road. They grew 
closer, riding quite up to the very edge of the veranda, 
it seemed, and I was quite sure that I could not be 
mistaken, I would hasten to the door, throw it open, 
and peer out into the night air,'as far as I could see. 
All was darkness, and not a sound greeted my ear, 
except the sighing of the wind through the old locust 
that bordered the pathway, and not an object in sight. 
All a phantom! Perhaps a dream! One of the 
darkies sat by the wide, open fireplace, in which 
burned a few smoldering coals. Here he had dozed 
in an easy-chair, the warmth from the wood fire put 
him to sleep, and he slumbered as peaceful and pleas- 
ant as a child. 

"About daylight I called to him, and rousing him- 
self from his sleep, he quickly wakened, and with an 
effort tried to conceal from me the fact that he had 
been dozing. I bade him to go over to Luwallings at 
once, and find out if he had returned, and come back 
quickly and give me the news. 

"In a short time the darky returned, and reported 
that Jim Luwalling had come home in the night time, 
long toward morning, but was not yet risen. That as 
soon as he was up he would come over and tell all 
42 


f>f ©ID JFott KecotJetp 


about it. This was all that I could learn from the 
darky, and I waited. 

^Tt seemed ages as I looked and listened for Lu- 
walling, and I thought that he would never come at 
all, and that he was the sleepiest man in all the world. 
Long about noon, however, he came riding over, but 
not much in a hurry, rather slow and indifferent. I 
was so anxious to know something about your father 
that I rushed out to meet him before he dismounted 
his horse. 

‘‘ ‘Where is my husband, Jim Luwalling, and what 
have you done with him? Why didn’t he come home 
with you, I’d like to know ?’ 

“ ‘I don’t know where your husband is, and I 
haven’t done anything with him, nor do I know why 
he didn’t come with me. We started about dark, rid- 
ing along together ’ 

“ ‘Did you get a settlement for the cattle ?’ 

“ ‘Yes ; and the Major had it, as we hadn’t divided 
it yet.’ 

“ ‘That’s certainly a likely story. It wouldn’t be at 
all like you, Jim Luwalling, to let my husband carry 
all the money. However, what do you know about 
the Major? I am more interested in his welfare than 
I am about money.’ 

“ ‘Well, as I was saying, we rode out of the town of 

N together, leaving there about dark. Thinking 

we would be perfectly safe coming home in the night 
time, and then there were some parties in the town we 
neither one was pleased with, so we concluded ^ to 
get out without creating any disturbance. Feeling 
sure we could get home by daylight, we pushed our 
horses along at a pretty sharp trot. We had not gone 

43 


attijur Clair 


very far until it became quite dark, so much so that 
we could scarcely see each other as we rode along our 
way. 

“ ‘We discussed the idea of turning back rather than 
to take chances of finding our way out of the dilemma, 
but we did not like to go back into the town, since 
it was pretty well known that we had a large sum of 
money with us, and feeling safer out upon the high- 
way than we did among the parties, whom we had 

seen at N , we decided to push ahead and make 

the best of it. 

“ ‘There is a long distance that the road runs di- 
rectly through a dense forest, and before we reached 
this point, it began raining, which added much to our 
discomfiture. In fact, before we came up to the wood 
the storm was considerable. The rain was accom- 
panied by a heavy wind, which made travel extremely 
dangerous through the timber, and we hesitated 
whether we would try, or turn back and seek lodging 
along the way. 

“ ‘However, not seeing any very inviting places 
along the road, and both being very anxious to get 
home, we pulled our hats down around our ears and 
turned up our coat collars and pushed on, keeping in 
close touch with each other for miles, and until we 
reached the river. The storm did not abate its fury; 
the hazard was great from falling timber, and the 
flash of the lightning. Not a few times we found 
trees blown across the road, which compelled us to 
make a circuitous route through the woods to get on 
our way. 

“ ‘As we rode along our attention was attracted by 
rushing, running waters, and before us, in the light of 

44 


©f ©ID jFott EecoDerp 


the lightning we saw an expanse of muddy flood. 
This stream, when he had crossed a few days before, 
was only a tiny little river, and while it seemed to be 
swollen some, we could not tell in the darkness just 
how much, but did not consider it dangerous, and 
feeling sure that our good horses could carry us 
safely over, we pushed on. 

T rode in first, and after going only a short way, 
to my surprise the horse began swimming, and, to my 
horror, we were being carried rapidly dow.i stream. 
I hallooed back to the Major to be careful how he 
guided his horse, and to give him the rein, but re- 
ceived no response. With the greatest possible effort 
my horse, after being almost exhausted, was able to 
land on the other side. No sooner was I sure of my 
footing than I began calling for the Major, but not 
a sound reached my ears, except the rushing waters, 
the falling rain and the howling winds, that seemed 
to mock me. I called again and again, and receiving 
no response, I pushed on up the stream, through the 
timber and logs, and finally reached the roadway. I 
rode close down to the water, and looked and lis- 
tened. I waited for the lightning’s flash, hoping that 
I might be able to see the Major, but all to no purpose. 
I called again and again, until my heart came up in 
my throat, and until I could call no longer, my voice 
became weak and I could scarcely make a noise. 

“ T resolved to do something to relieve the awful 
strain on my mind and turning my horse about I rode 
into the water and started to go back to the other 
side, but the terrible risk that I had undergone in 
crossing the first time, persuaded me that the hazard 
could not be undertaken again with safety, and I was 

45 


attfiut Clait 


forced to abandon it. I kept my horse standing in 
the water until he began to shiver with cold, and see- 
ing that I was doing no good in punishing the animal 
by keeping him there, I rode back up the bank and 
waited for the storm to break away, that T might be 
able to ascertain the Major’s whereabouts. 

“ ‘There I waited and watched, it seemed to me for 
ages, and after several hours the clouds seemed higher 
and thinner, the rain ceased, and the stars began to 
shine out here and there in little patches, and after 
more waiting, listening and watching, it began to grow 
light. I again rode down to the water’s edge, and 
looking in every direction, except behind me, all was 
raging, swirling, muddy water. I looked up and 
down the stream as far as the eye could penetrate — all 
was water, water, maddened and furious, and over be- 
tween the wall of timber that lined the roadway, I 
was unable to distinguish any object that resembled 
man or beast. 

“ Tt would have been fatal to undertake to cross 
the stream now in its terrible flood of waters, and the 
thought was promptly abandoned. I began to reason 
with myself that the Major had been more wise than 
I, and had not tried to cross the stream, but had cer- 
tainly turned back and sought shelter at some of the 
negro huts along the way. This seemed a most rea- 
sonable thing for anyone to have done, under the cir- 
cumstances, and hoping that this impression would 
receive the confirmation of his better judgment, and 
at the same time fearing for the worse, I grew sick 
and tired looking at the angry flood, and turning my 
horse about, started for home, with a sad heart, not 
knowing what had been the fate of your husband.’ 

46 


ffl)f flPlO JFort IRecoiietg 

‘^At this point in Luwalling’s narrative I became 
blind and dizzy and fell fainting upon the ground. A 
delirium fever followed, and for weeks I knew noth- 
ing of what was passing. After a while, when I had 
regained consciousness, and getting a little stronger, I 
sent for Luwalling, who came and told me the sad 
story again. I was also informed by him that the 
stream had been dragged for miles below the ford, but 
horse nor rider were nowhere found. Search was 
persistently made everywhere, but all in vain, no clue, 
no trace, no evidence could be discovered that would 
lend any aid in fathoming this mystery. 

^‘It was not long until the gossipers of the neigh- 
borhood were circulating the story that your father 
had been foully dealt with, and this gossip soon 
ripened into a suspicion, pointing a finger of accusa- 
tion toward Jim Luwalling. They reasoned, that if 
your father had drowned his body or his horse would 
have been found. The story also became current that 
the money for the cattle, several thousand dollars, 
was paid to Luwalling instead of your father. It was 
also reported by seemingly good authority that they 

rode out of the town of N early in the afternoon, 

which, if true, they had ample time to reach the river 
before nightfall. A story also received some credence 
that Luwalling was seen riding through the forest 
alone before he reached the fords of the river. 

‘These and many other stories were told, all of 
which were favorably received by the much-wrought- 
up and anxious public, and threats were made against 
Luwalling, and I was in great fear that he would be 
dealt with by violent hands, and his own life made 
to pay the forfeit.” 


47 


attftur Clait 


“Why, mother, do you think that Jim Luwalling 
killed and robbed my father 

“Well, my son, you have asked me a hard question, 
and for years I have tried to persuade myself that 
there is some mistake, some unexplained mystery, and 
that your father lost his life in the flood of angry 
waters, and that Jim Lu walling’s story is true, but 
somehow I cannot give full confidence to what he has 
told me. I cannot believe it. I never shall believe it !” 

“Shur-r, lad, yer mither has expr-ressed my sinti- 
ments. Oi can’t belave him, and whin I sa him, Oi 
always ax ’im, ‘Wher-r’s the Major?’ 

“'What Major?’ says he. 

“ ‘The Major that wint away wid yees and the wahn 
thet didn’t come back wid yees,’ says Oi. 

“Thin he walks away, seeing it wouldn’t impr-rove 
his health to continue the argumint inny longer.” 

“Yes, my son, there is little or no doubt but what 
your father was murdered and robbed by none other 
than Jim Luwalling. At least, that is the firm and 
honest opinion of your mother.” 


CHAPTER VI 

TIMOTHY AND ARTHUR 

After Arthur’s mother had finished her narrative 
the young man sat for a long time in a deep, contem- 
plative mood, without uttering a word. It was very 
plain that the story had affected him greatly, and 
many thoughts were running through his mind, and 
48 


ffl)f ©ID jTott iSecoDetp 


not being able to come to a conclusion upon the sub- 
ject, he remained quiet. To him it was a terrible 
revelation, and yet he was slow to adopt his mother’s 
opinion as to the death of his father. Mrs. St. Clair, 
for years, had labored under the impression that her 
son, when once he knew the facts, would fly into a 
rage, and seek immediate revenge, but in this she was 
happily disappointed. Arthur was a very considerate 
young man, and never did things hastily, and in this 
instance he sat and meditated. 

Timothy Hogan’s blood was boiling. The telling 
of the story by Mrs. St. Clair, whom he almost re- 
vered, had set abroach all of Tim’s fighting propensi- 
ties, and he watched the young man eagerly, expect- 
ing some outburst of rage, and after some time he 
arose and began pacing the floor, with military stride. 
In his own mind he could have put to route a thou- 
sand of the bravest, and if Luwalling had been around 
there certainly he would have had more trouble than 
he could have taken care of. Tim continued to walk 
fhe floor, and occasionally stopped and looked at 
Arthur, who remained quiet. Several times he struck 
his fists together, in some imaginary fray, in which, 
it is safe to say, that Luwalling was getting the worst 
of it. 

After a while Tim cooled off some, and announced 
that he believed that he would return to the village, 
to his work, and picking up his hat started for the 
door. 

This movement seemed to arouse Arthur from his 
meditation, and he went where his old friend was 
standing, and begged him to remain overnight, as 
there was some matter he wanted to talk over with 

49 


attftur S't. Claft 

him. Mrs. St. Clair joined the solicitation, and soon 
Tim had no notion of going. 

Receiving the assurance that Tim was willing to 
remain all night, Arthur tapped him on the shoulder, 
and saying: 

“Tim, I want to see you — come upstairs with me.” 

“Shur-r, lad, Oi’d go wid yees oopstair-rs oor any- 
whars.” 

With this they started out of the room, and Arthur 
led the way up to his own little bedchamber under 
the roof. While Mrs. St. Clair being relieved of the 
subject, since she had told her son, laid down for a 
rest, paying no attention to Tim and Arthur. 

On reaching the little room in the upper story, 
Arthur filled a couple of corncob pipes with some to- 
bacco that had been raised in Virginia many years 
before, and it was a very extra quality, and handed 
one of them over to Timothy, who proceeded to smoke 
up, much to his delight, and Arthur doing likewise, it 
was not long until they had raised considerable fog. 

After smoking in silence for some little time, Arthur 
began by asking Tim a question, and received an an- 
swer without any reservation, their conversation be- 
ing something after this manner: 

“Say, Timothy, do you really believe Luwalling 
killed and robbed my father?” 

“Do Oi belave hit? Why, me boy, Oi’m jist as 
sartin of hit as Oi am that Ould St. Patrick kilt all 
the snakes in Ould Ireland. Oi tell yees, lad, ther-r’s 
no question about hit, Oi'm most sartin he did, und 
iver-rybody down in Ould Virginia, wher-r we used 
to live, behaved it thin, und they behave it now.” 

“Well, if I could be certain of it, I would under- 

50 


©f ©10 jFott Eecooetp 


take to deal with him as he should be dealt with, but 
somehow I cannot believe he killed my father, al- 
though it seems strange, and passing strange, that 
Luwalling could get across the river in safety and my 
father could not. There is also another thing that 
I cannot understand, and that is, if my father was 
drowned in the river, why was it that neither he nor 
his horse were ever found? It is not at all probable 
that he lost his life in the stream — something else has 
happened, the truth of which has not yet been re- 
vealed.’^ 

"‘Ye’r right, lad, phat became av the horse und phat 
became av yir father, Jim Luwalling knows, un no- 
body ils doos, un hit’s a good thing fir him they dun’t 
know, oor ther-r’d been trooble down in Ould Vir- 
ginia, Oi tell yees.” 

“Timothy, was Luwalling ever arrested and tried 
for the murder of my father?” 

“Why, me lad, shur-r he wus, und hit’s divilish clos 
the joory come av hangin’ ’im, und Oi he’r-rd since 
they could av hanged ’im had they found him gilty.’^ 

“Then he was tried and found not guilty?” 

“Yis, the joory t’ought all av the time he wus gilty, 
un if it hadn’t been fer re’son’ble doubt he would av 
been convicted. Ye see, lad, whin a mahn is aristed, 
that’s one thing; thin whin he’s tri’d be a jidge un 
joory, thet’s anither thing; thin comes a fellow call 
re’son’ble doubt, un he’s the whole thing, ur somethin’ 
loik thet. Leastways, the liyers talked all the toime 
about the doubt, un Oi couldn’t sa fir the loife av me 
.waht thet had to do wid the killen av yir father.” 

“You mean, Timothy, do you not, that the crime 
charged must have been proven beyond a reasonable 

51 


attfiur %t. Claft 


doubt, and if the jury entertain any such doubt, they 
could not convict?’^ 

‘‘Yis, Oi ricken thet’s the way it wus, Oi’m no 
liyer. The trial lasted siveral days, und it cost Ould 
Jim Lu wallin' a poil av money, but Oi'll wager me 
shelala thet hit’s yir father’s mooney un not a cint av 
it his ouwn. 

‘'Oi tell yees, lad, we ought to take ’im out to the 
river soom dar-rk night un make ’im swim fir his 
loif, and whin he swims out t’row ’im in ag’in, un 
kape him swim’in’ till he tills us all ’bout hit, und av 
a rafuses to till us, t’row ’im in ag’in, und sur-r in 
this way he’d git to ba a moighty good swim’er, oor 
we’d be after knowin’ moor thin we do now. What 
de ye say, me lad ?” 

"If it was not for one thing, Timothy, I should not 
hesitate to join you on a little scouting tour some 
dark night, and we’d put his swimming ability to the 
test, but ” 

"But vhat?” 

"Well, you know, to harm Luwalling would be do- 
ing a great wrong to his daughter, Virginia, and this 
I could not think of doing, nor could I permit it to be 
done by another, if in my power to prevent.” 

"Oi sa, hit’s Virgina yees would be after doin’ a 
kind’ess? Will thet sound very sintemintal, but yees 
must remimb’r thet Ould Jim Luwallin’ will say to it 
thet ye’r niver es much es git t’ spake to his daughter. 
So if ye av inny thing noice und good thet yir layin’ 
oop fir Virginia Luwallin’, ye’d bitter go out wist un 
foight Ingins, un git yersilf scalp’d oor fall in love 
wid a squaw, un thim’s my sintiments.” 

"Whether I shall be permitted to speak to her or 

52 


SDf ©ID JTort IRecoDctp 


not, I do not know, but one thing I am sure of, it is 
not her fault. Something tells me that some day I 
shall, and I can only wait and see. I believe with all 
my sad heart that she, too, will wait for me until the 
barriers are removed, by the remoulding hand of time. 
It may not be on this unhappy shore, and if not, I 
shall endeavor to so live, that I may hope to meet her 
in a future world, and that we may know each other 
there. It seems terrible to me that I should thus early 
in life be distressed by a love affair, over which I 
have no control, and cannot even speak to the girl I 
adore. Say, Timothy, were you ever in love?” 

“Oi t’ought Oi war once.” 

“Well, what ever became of it?” 

“You sa, lad, Oi was in love wid a ger-rel, but Oi 
guess she niver found it out. Innyway, she married 
the ither wahn.” 

“Why, that’s funny?” 

“The divil is funny! Sur-r, lad, it’s niver been 
virry fooney to me, und altho’ it’s been siveral y’ars 
since, still Oi hevn’t hed no foon out en it yit.” 

“Well, well, Timothy, old boy, let us lay aside our 
love affairs and turn our attention to something else. 
Your sentiments about fighting Indians has a tinge of 
adventure in it, which seems to afford amusement 
enough to occupy a distracted mind, for awhile, at 
least. There is certainly very little danger, and with 
you, my dear old Timothy, I should not be afraid of 
any number of them.” 

“Would yees jin me, lad?” 

“Why, certainly, and at once, for I want to get out 
of these surroundings, and away from the conditions 
that seem to hold me under an influence, which is 

53 


3tt|)ut Clair 


worrying me, and I know of no better way than to 
go out west and fight the Indians, but — my mother! 

^‘What would she say? 

*'What would she do? 

‘‘God bless her ! It would never do to tell her, and 
to go away without telling her, and bidding her adieu 
—oh 1 it simply can’t be done. She must know it.” 

“Yis, lad, yees can pretind yir only goin’ to town 
oor over to a neighbor, oor somewher-r about here, 
thin jis kape on goin’, un mither’ll be noon the wiser.” 

“But, Timothy, that would be deceiving my mother, 
the best, the dearest friend I ever had or ever shall 
have, and this I could not think of doing. To tell her 
I must disobey her wishes, and to go without telling 
her is a wrong, but it is the lesser offense. I shall 
choose the latter. 

“Now, Timothy, for the plan of war?” 

“The plan of war, why, lad, we must git wher-r the 
In jins are, and to do this we must j’in the army. Oi 
till yees, Oi’ll go und sa Quid Cap Grisley und find 
out all about the war wid the In jins. Oi’ll take to- 
morro’ to do this, un in the manetoim we can be gittin’ 
riddy. We’ll nade guns, powder un bullets, und a lot 
of things; so be after looking around a bit, me lad, 
und Oi’ll be on the wor-ruks mesilf, und riddy fer 
thim.” 

Preparations were going on in a quiet way, and all 
was kept a profound secret. Arthur got his father’s 
sword and polished it until it was bright. An old 
squirrel rifle was brought forth from the deep re- 
, cesses of the closet, under the stairway. An old leather 
shot pouch and powder horn, was discovered and 
seized upon as contraband of war. Ladle and bullet 

54 


©f ©ID JTott JRecoDetp 


moulds were called into service, and stowed away in 
the great leather pouch, which had done service in 
the War of the Revolution, and thus the preparations 
went quietly on, without any anxiety or suspicion on 
the part of Arthur’s mother. 

As arranged, Timothy came after nightfall, and 
meeting Arthur at a prearranged rendezvous, the plans 
were completed for the adventure, after many ques- 
tions were asked and answered. 

‘‘What did Old Cap Grisley say, Timothy, about the 
Indians ?” asked Arthur among the first questions. 

''He said, seys he, they’re gittin’ mischeevus und 
er thre’tnin’ the settler.” 

"Well, did you learn how we can join the soldiers 
and go out and fight them?” 

"Sur-r, me lad, Oi got the credintsuls un full di- 
rections fir taken thim. Her-r’s a litter from an of- 
ficer av the army to Ould Cap himself, und hit tills in 
it how innywhan can j’ine the bouys, whin to come 
und wher-r to go, un all about it. So ye see, me lad, 
all we’re got to do is to git riddy, and go und j’ine 
thim. Air ye riddy ? Av yees got a gun and plinty av 
powder und bullets?” 

"Yes, I have a gun, bullets, powder, flints, powder 
horn, scalping knife, and everything all stored away 
here in the barn, ready for marching on the enemy at 
a moment’s notice.” 

"Shake, me lad, the In jins will be all the woss fir 
this day’s wor-ruk. Belave me, ye are a brave lad, the 
loiks if yir father. I fot wid ’im and Oi be fightin" 
wid yees. 

"Now, lad, no wahn knows our plans be ye and 
mesilf, they’re safe. Go back to the house and go to 

55 


gttftur ^t> Clair 

bed. Git oop at midnight — slide down iver the roof 
to the gr- round. Oi’ll be waitin’ fir yeer. Till thin, 
good-bye.” 


CHAPTER VII 

ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER 

Days, weeks and months came, and passed away, 
and not a word, sign or token reached Mrs. St. Clair 
of her departed son’s whereabouts. Each day came 
and went with its little incidents, troubles and vexa- 
tions, and through it all she suffered more than tongue 
can tell, but bore it all with fortitude, like a Stoic. 

The whole neighborhod was engrossed in an over- 
flow of gossip. A morbid curiosity seemed to have 
seized every one, and what could not be heard was 
invented, thus many stories were set in circulation 
about Arthur’s disappearance, all of which was con- 
jectural, as they knew not where he had gone or why 
he had left. Some of these stories reached Arthur’s 
mother, but she was too philosophic to place any cre- 
dence in them, or to allow herself to become entangled 
in that which she was certain could be nothing more 
than the invention of idle gossipers. 

One cold wintry day, when the snow lay in deep 
drifts over the landscape, and a bitter and cruel wind 
was blowing, like the blasts of a thousand furies, Mrs. 
St. Clair turned aside from the breakfast table, upon 
which Aunt Chloe had prepared and placed an appe- 
tizing meal, to look out of the window, upon the 
storm that was raging without. The first thought 
that came into her mind was her absent son, as the 

56 


ffl)f £DtO JFott IRecoHetp 

wind hurried along with its freight of snow, pushing, 
driving, swirling, scampering in almost every direc- 
tion, and at the same time the good mother could not 
help believing that her dear boy was somewhere ex- 
posed to the rage of these terrible elements. 

And she thought, as she stood there gazing upon the 
storm, can it be that He who hears the raven’s cry, 
will not listen to a mother’s supplication for her boy, 
who is a wanderer, somewhere upon the face of the 
earth ? 

‘‘Oh ! certainly. Father, my prayers have not been 
unheard, my voice unheeded, my burning tears in 
vain! As the Master’s voice went up to heaven in 
supplication for the lost sheep, that were out on the 
Judean Hills, far out from the fold, so does my heart 
go out into this awful storm for my dear boy.” 

And she meditated to herself, with the wish that 
she had not told him of the story of our many wrongs, 
we had suffered at the hands of Jim Luwalling, for I 
perhaps have done him and myself a great injury, 
which might have been avoided, by postponing the 
telling until he was older. It may be that I have 
waited too long, for had I told him when younger, 
he doubtless would not have taken it so seriously. 

I know that he is deeply in love with Virginia Lu- 
walling, and realizing the barrier betwixt the object 
of his love and himself, he has thought best to go 
out into the wide world to seek consolation among 
strangers. Perhaps it is all the better for him and for 
me; at least I shall try to persuade myself that it is. 

“He will soon forget his ill-advised infatuation for 
Virginia Luwalling. Other faces, other smiles will 
change his boyish love, and she will soon be forgotten. 

57 


attijur §it. Clair 


This will more than repay me for his absence, and 
when I know that he has forsaken, and abandoned his 
ill-timed love storm, I shall be more than happy. 

In my hope and earnest desire that my son should 
forget his earliest love, I have lost the thought, for 
the time being, of his present condition and welfare. 
If I could receive some word from him, and could 
know that he is alive and well, I should be relieved for 
awhile of this awful worry. 

Just then Aunt Chloe came into the room, holding 
a small white package, her face lighted up with great 
expectations, as she approached Mrs. St. Clair, say- 
ing: 

“Here, Missum, here am ah leddah dat Bill Jonsing 
done jis brung frum de pos’ ofus, und hit suttenly 
frum Mastah Artie. Ah done tole you dat you am 
gwine git ah leddah. Ah jis know’d dah war won on 
de rode all de time. Ah could tell de way mah ole 
rumatics was car’ing on dat sumthin’ gwine to hap- 
pen, suah nuff.’’ 

Tearing open the small packet and breaking the 
seal with all possible haste, that she might catch the 
first word, that gave the assurance to her asking heart 
of her most anxious expectation. Mrs. St. Clair 
lighted up with an angelic smile as her eyes caught 
the words, “Dear mother.” 

Rapidly over the few lines she hastened, then over 
and over again she read them, each time more inter- 
esting than before. 

All the while Aunt Chloe was talking, trying to find 
out, whether or not it was from Arthur, and what had 
become of him, but the good mother hearkened not to 
her earnest solicitations. After having read the letter 

58 



“Here, Missum, here am ah leddah dat Bill Jon- 
sing done jis brung frum de pos’ oius, und hit 
siittenly frum Mastah Artie,’* 


^AahuI: St. Clatr.)— P. 58 



ffl)( flPlD Jfott Kccotietg 

more than a dozen times in silence, Aunt Chloe suc- 
ceeded in making herself heard, and Mrs. St. Clair 
read it aloud for the good old darky’s benefit, which 
ran as follows: 

'"Dear Mother : You must be very sad and lonely, 
and my young heart ever yearns for you. It was in- 
deed very wrong for me to go way without telling of 
my intentions to do so, but, believe me, mother, I 
could not summon the courage to tell you, and now I 
pray your forgiveness. I am well, and we leave here 
soon, and will go farther west. Tell Aunt Chloe that 
I have not forgotten her. I love you mother most 
tenderly. Arthur. 

'Tittsburg, 12-12-1790.” 

*'Suah nuff, dat am frum de deah boy! My Ian’, 
Ah’m suttenly glad de chile am libben. We had to 
sense him dis mohnin’, an’ Ah hope he am gwine 
come home to see hees muddah an’ poor old Aunt 
Chloe. Ah’s done gittin’ old, an’ Ah specs Ah nebber 
gwine to see my honey boy any moah. An’ he done 
write hee’s in Pittsburg, wherebber dat am. Ah specs 
hit am a long way from dis p’int, but Ah don’t knows 
where, case Ah got no edication.” 

In this manner the old colored woman kept on talk- 
ing for some time, and all the while Mrs. St. Clair 
was in deep study over the letter, trying to determine 
by force of reasoning what her son was doing in Pitts- 
burg, and why he was going on farther west. This 
latter part of the letter was hard to determine — farther 
west kept coming up in her mind, and no point of 
interest or anything likely to interest a young man 

59 


3tt6ut Clait 


could she call to mind. Certainly he will write soon 
again, and tell more particularly where he is going 
and what he is doing. 

“Missum, Ah dun wish you let me hab dat leddah, 
Ah jis like to hab it wid me, case Ah most suttin' it 
gwine to help mah rumatics.’’ 

“Very well, Chloe, you may carry it around with 
you, if you like, but I wish you would make me a 
cup of hot coffee, and warm up the breakfast a little, 
for I feel better now, and would eat a bite, if you 
will.’^ 

Stowing away the letter in her capacious bosom. 
Aunt Chloe soon had the coffee pot singing a merry 
song, and everything in readiness for a nice break- 
fast. 

As Mrs. St. Clair enjoyed the morning meal Aunt 
Chloe kept up a lively conversation, repeating many 
little incidents that had happened to Arthur and other 
members of the family. And as a bit of gossip, she 
informed the missus about the Luwallings going 
away. 

“My Ian’, Missum, Ah specs Ah’m gwine s’prise 
you, suah nuff dis time. Ah dun jis’ hea’d dat Old 
Jim Luwallin’ and Miss Jinnie gwine move ’way to 
Phildelfy, un dat deah am not gwine cum back no 
moah. An’ Artie nebber gwine see Jinnie no moah, 
an’ Ah specs you all ain’t feelin’ bad ’bout dat.” 

“No, Aunt Chloe, I am not at all grieved at their 
departure from these parts, and I hope they will not 
return again. I do not wish them any harm, but sin- 
cerely trust that their going away will afford less op- 
portunity for Arthur to meet Virginia. Gone to 
Philadelphia, you say! Well, I am satisfied, for so 
6o 


©f 2D10 jFott Kecotjetp 


long as they are there, I feel confident, there is no 
probability of Arthur and Virginia meeting, and this- 
assurance affords me much pleasure.’^ 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE CHRISTMAS EVE BALL 

Eight long years since Arthur St. Clair slid down 
over the roof of his mother’s humble cottage, to join 
Ximothy Hogan in an expedition of war, to learn the 
prowess of the Redman, and many experiences of 
varied kind and character fell to his lot since that 
night. He was twenty-six years old, with full beard,, 
erect, gallant and commanding. A Chesterfield in 
manners ; a Greek athlete in stature ; a debonair in de-^ 
portment, and now an officer in the army, but known 
as Major Arthur, the St. Clair having been dropped 
by a habit of the people, who persisted in addressing" 
him under this title, instead of his real name. How- 
ever, this made no difference to him, for it served 
quite as well, and in some instances much better, for 
he was thus enabled to conceal his real name from 
those who would have otherwise recognized him. 

It is Christmas Eve in Philadelphia, and Major 
Arthur, arrayed in full uniform, as though prepared 
for dress parade, sat meditating over the proposition 
of accepting an invitation to attend a grand ball given 
in honor of the army officers, who were stationed in 
that city. It was hard to determine the thing he 
wanted to do. It was the merry time of the year, and 
the capital was out in fur and feather, and the whole 
6i 


9tti)ur %it. Clait 


atmosphere was ladened with the tingle of the sleigh 
bells, and shouts of the merry revelers. As he sat in 
his quarters, he reasoned with himself that there was 
no use to go, for he would be unable to find the one 
for whom he had been looking, and he thought, and 
talked to himself about the matter for some time. “I 
know that I shall not be able to find her at this ball. 
I have looked this city over for her, and it is not at 
all likely that she will be at this dance to -night. Oh ! 
pshaw! what is the use of thinking about seeing her 
again. It is only a waste of time, and idle phantasy, 
a mere hope. I know that she has long since for- 
gotten me, and perhaps married. Yes, there is no 
doubt about it, for I have been gone eight years, and 
in that length of time many strange things could have 
happened, and this would not at all be unusual or 
startling, and I could not blame her in the least. Yes, 

I could blame her some, for she promised Yes, 

but that has been a long time ago — new faces — new 
pleasures — new surroundings. These all make a dif- 
ference, and then, too, there is her father, Old Jim 
Luwalling, surely he has no love for me, I know that 
I have none for him. I suppose that he would not 
allow me to speak to Virginia, even if I should see her 

again, but then he may be dead, I wish No, I 

don't wish him dead, but I came mighty near it. Per- 
haps he would not recognize me if he did see me. That 
is my wish, that he would not know me. 

Suddenly looking up, he caught his reflection in the 
mirror on his dressing table, and joy leaped into his 
very soul, as the thoughts ran through his mind. Rec- 
ognize that face as Arthur St. Clair? Well, I should 
say not ! I would hardly know it myself ! But would 
62 


©f ©10 jFott IRecotjetp 


Virginia recognize me? That’s a different question. 
Women look so closely into a fellow’s face, when they 
are once interested, that it is hard to tell what she 
might do, but my guess is that she will not know me. 

Confident that he could safely venture out into the 
capital’s eveche, he would hazard the risk. So buck- 
ling on his bright new sword, he strode out into the 
night air, and down Chestnut Street, until he heard 
the sounds of music floating out amid the feathery 
snowflakes, which were then falling all over his new 
uniform. At the first sound that came to him from 
the ballroom he paused and listened. How different 
the music seemed from the fife and drum, which had 
played a tattoo on his ear for eight long years. And 
as he approached the place of merriment, a gentler 
feeling crept into his thoughts and ambitions, kindling 
anew the smouldering fires of love, and animating an 
overweaning desire to see Virginia Luwalling or ob- 
tain some intelligence of her whereabouts. As he 
moved along through the freshly fallen snow, some- 
thing seemed to tell him, to encourage him and to give 
him confidence, that his efforts would be fully com- 
pensated. With these thoughts running through his 
mind, he entered the ballroom, but so engrossed with 
the subject of his love, he scarcely realized what he 
was doing or where he was going. 

Taking a position where he could sweep the whole 
range of the room, he watched the merry dancers, as 
they moved over the waxen floor with grace and 
beauty, like a myriad of sylvian nymphs, in the deep 
recesses of the wild wood. Silk and tinsel, sword and 
trappings all in measured rustle and clatter moved in 
harmony with the sweet tones of the orchestra. 

63 


3ttftut ©t. Clair 


Faces came up close to where he was sitting, then 
moving on with the tempo of the waltz, were soon lost 
among the many. Here and there were upturned 
countenances, that beamed with a rosy smile, in whom 
he thought for a moment, there was some line or 
expression of recognition; but the next movement 
proved it all a mistake. There were times when he 
was so sure, that the approaching face was that of his 
love, he was almost on the point of offering some sign 
of friendliness, but the next instant he was glad that 
he had not ventured to execute the thought. 

Thus as one who watches the movements in a cal- 
dron, hoping that there would come up from the sea 
of faces, the desire of his heart, he looked on a most 
interested spectator. This joyous revelry, however, 
soon ceased to be an entertainment for him, and rising 
he was about to retire from the room, but remained 
standing at the back of his chair, still waiting, watch- 
ing, hoping and lingering, with a half-anticipation that 
something would yet develop, which would meet his 
expectations. 

When just on the point of turning away he again 
looked down on the moving, swirling throng of hu- 
manity, that came up toward him like a mighty swell 
of the sea, and as they came closer, he caught the 
outline of a face, the sparkle of the eye, the ivory 
back of half-open lips, the crimson of the cheeks, the 
gold in the chestnut hair, the form, the movement of 
one whom he recognized beyond question, to be none 
other than Virginia Luwalling. For a moment his 
heart came up in his throat, and he clutched the back 
of his chair with the grip of a giant, lest he should 
fall ; great drops of perspiration stood out on his fore- 
64 


f>f flDlD JFott IRecoVietg 

head, like pease on a board ; his breath came quick 
and fast. In his great joy he became lost and dazed 
for a moment, and looking out again, searching, scru- 
tinizing, penetrating with an eye of Argus, he could 
not catch a glimpse of the apparition that had given 
him such a fright a moment before. There he stood, 
calmly meditating over the situation, and being thor- 
oughly convinced that he was not mistaken in what 
he had just seen, he resolved to mingle with the merry 
revelers, and to find, if possible, whether it was a mere 
phantasy or a reality. 

Moving along out with the throng into the centre 
of the great dancing hall, where candelabra shone 
brightest o’er lovely women and brave men, he chanced 
to meet one of his superior officers, who was enjoy- 
ing the occasion like a Benedict. Introduction fol- 
lowed, and soon he found himself in the midst of a 
small coterie of smiling, bustling ladies, each one try- 
ing to obtain some recognition or attention from the 
gallant-looking army officer, whose acquaintance they 
had formed a moment ago. Of the many whom he 
met, there was also one for whom he was looking. 
Scarcely could he repress his feeling, nor did he dare 
to trust his voice to utter a word for awhile, but 
simply bowed to the little lady, who was presented 
to him as Miss Luwalling, while his name was given, 
in return, as Major Arthur. Looks were exchanged, 
inquisition became an ardent inspector, but its storm 
soon broke into a calm, and feeling his way cautiously, 
carefully and prudently, a light, indifferent conversa- 
tion was carried on for a brief moment. The music 
from the orchestra came with its soft melody, and all 
about them, joining in the waltz, they, too, moved out 

65 


9ttl)ut St. Clair 


into the great swirl of happy, joyous revelry, like ships 
going out to sea, and were soon lost in the maelstrom 
of human splendor. 

Around the room they moved many times with 
grace and beauty, while the Major was in horror, lest 
some movement, some word or act, would reveal his 
identity, but in this particular he had no cause for the 
slightest apprehension. Dancing and waltzing for some 
time, until fatigued, at Miss Virginia’s suggestion, they 
retired for a light luncheon. 

On leaving the ballroom she turned around, facing 
the Major, and looking him squarely in the face, said : 
“Major Arthur, I wish you to meet my dear old fa- 
ther. He will be here in a moment, since it is now 
twelve o’clock, and he said he would come for me at 
this hour.” To which Arthur carefully and guardedly 
replied : “Certainly, with pleasure, I shall be delighted 
to meet and know your father.” 

They sat down at a light luncheon and scarcely had 
they broken bread, when there came into the room a 
white-haired, elderly gentleman, whom Arthur rec- 
ognized at the first glance to be none other than James 
Luwalling. Gracious, how his heart leaped for a mo- 
ment as the suspicion ran through his mind that he 
would be recognized, and for a moment he was greatly 
frightened lest he be found out. However, seeing 
there was no need of anxiety, he soon gained his com- 
posure. 

“My father, Major Arthur.” 

“I am very happy to meet you, Mr. Luwalling, and 
hope you are well.” 

“Quite well, thank you, and, I assure you, the pleas- 
ure is all mine.” 


66 


2D( 2DID jFort Kecotoetp 


What a grand sight was presented by this trio! 
Venerable, gray-haired sire grasping the hand of a 
chivalrous young man. One has fallen into the sear, 
the yellow leaf, quaking with the tremor of dementia ; 
the other proud, noble and grand, with flashing eye 
and countenance, with the ruddy glow of hope and 
health. Two deadly and bitter enemies, unknown by 
one, and yet clasped in the grasp of friendly greeting. 
Grace, beauty and modesty looked on with an air of 
approval. Glancing from face to face. Miss Virginia 
watched the movements of each, noting, as she did so, 
the coming and passing shadows. Her face, beaming 
with an interested smile, the crimson mounting the 
cheeks, the lustre of the eye, all told the story that she 
was drinking deep draughts in that which was passing. 

Sitting down around this small table, the three — 
age, chivalry and beauty — were soon engrossed in a 
lively conversation on subjects apropos of the occa- 
sion. Major Arthur was kept busy guarding every 
word and action. Family expressions and dialect, 
which naturally cling to every one, were discarded, 
as their employment might create an air of suspicion. 
Several times, on quickly looking up, Arthur caught 
a pair of inquisitive optics looking into his very soul, 
and it took the power of a giant and the resolution 
of a Caesar to resist the tempting opportunity of seiz- 
ing the idol of his love and pressing her to his throb- 
bing heart, but reason, although almost madly driven 
from the seat of judgment, prevailed, and with the 
vigilance of Rizpah stood guard at the portals of ac- 
tion, and calmly assuaged the ardor that burned 
within. The wise, old, doting father could plainly see 
in his daughter's countenance that the crimson in her 
67 


attftut §)t. Clai’t 


cheeks were deeper hued than usual; that the eye 
shone with uncommon brightness ; that her laughter 
was in harmony with the lightest merriment, and at it 
all he wondered. 

Certainly, he meditated, it is the season of the year 
for merriment, and it is but natural that my daughter 
should be in good cheer, merry and happy. It does 
my old soul good to see her looking so beautiful, so 
blithesome, so light-hearted and gay. As he listened 
to the conversation of his daughter and the young 
army officer, he imagined in the exchange of their 
glances he saw kindling the flame of an incipient love, 
and to this he resolved to add the kind of fuel that 
would augment the blaze. In his hurry to be alone, 
so that he might think it over and form his plans for 
the future, as he now felt most certain of his oppor- 
tunity of convincing his daughter that it would be the 
best and wisest thing for her to entirely forget Arthur 
St. Clair forever, he became just a little impatient, and 
suggested the lateness of the hour several times before 
Virginia seemed to hear him. 

^'Yes, father, at your pleasure. And I suspect that 
we are keeping the Major beyond his usual hour of 
repose.’’ 

“Beg pardon, madam, but the hours have been so 
enjoyable that I have taken no note of their flight. 
It is a little later than army officers seek their repose, 
but sleep can well afford to wait its opportunity when 
occasions like this bids us keep night’s vigil, and I 
hope that when another Christmas Eve shall come, 
together we may again chase the phantasy of delight 
in harmony with sweet melody’s enchanting measure.” 

.Wraps, furs and mufflers adjusted in manner to 

68 


SDf DID JFott iRecoDctp 


expel the winter’s flaw, the old gentleman, with his 
lovely daughter on one arm, gently slipped his right 
hand through the arm of the Major, and together 
the trio walked out into the night air, and away from 
the throng. Pausing upon the sidewalk for a moment, 
the elderly gentleman drew from his pocket a small 
white card, presenting the same, said : “Major Arthur, 
here you will find our street number and place of 
abode. My daughter and I are all alone in the world, 
and we shall be delighted to have you dine with us 
some day — when it best suits your pleasure.” 

“I thank you very kindly for your courteous invi- 
tation, and I assure the same is accepted with delight.” 

Approaching a cab, the drowsy driver, in his great 
fur coat, rolled from his snowy seat and held open 
the door. Major Arthur assisted the old gentleman 
to get in, then turning about there stood on the walk, 
all bundled in a greatcoat and hat of fur the apple of 
his eye, the joy of his heart. Out from her muff came 
a small, gloved hand, which was held out to him, and 
which he hesitated for a moment to grasp, for fear 
that he would never be able to relax his hold upon it. 
But a glance in that upturned face gave confidence, 
and as the hands were clasped a musical voice fell on 
the stillness: 

“Good night. Major Arthur ! I hope that you may 
find the time and pleasure to give credence to my fa- 
ther’s earnest solicitations. We shall anticipate a will- 
ing acceptance of the invitation and your convenience 
will be our pleasure and delight.” 

Arthur gave but a feeble reply; in fact, he could 
not. All the elements of joy, sorrow, delights and ex- 
pectation were contending within him, and he was 
69 


gitt&ut %>t. Claic 

forced to refrain from trying to reply, except half- 
heartedly. 

'‘Gk)od night, Mr. Luwalling! Good night, Miss 
Luwalling! I trust that I shall find the opportunity 
to accept of your venerable father’s extended cour- 
tesies.” 

Closing the cab door the carriage moved off with 
muffled sound on account of the snow, down through 
the main thoroughfare still crowded with moving 
throngs of happy people. Arthur stood watching the 
cab as it rolled away, and for a long time after it was 
lost in the shadows he was still looking in the same 
direction as if entranced, and would have remained 
there no one knows how long if an approaching of- 
ficer had not saluted him with a friendly expression : 

“Time to turn in. Major!” 


CHAPTER IX 

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND 

Several mornings after the Christmas Eve ball old 
Mr. Luwalling and his daughter Virginia drifted into 
a conversation in which the happenings and incidents 
* of the recent ball were discussed with interest. To 
be sure, the Major was by no means overlooked, but 
on the contrary, became the centre of discourse, in 
which he was invoiced by the venerable father as a 
very valuable asset, for he had bent his mind on bring- 
ing these young people into more friendly relations. 
In this particular, however, he was destined to meet 
70 


DIO 5ott Eccotoerg 

a very stubborn opposition in the person of his own 
daughter, who had some notions of her own, and was 
free to express them. 

The old gentleman, “with his youthful hose well 
saved, a world too wide for his shrunk shank,” sat 
close up to the wood fire as it blazed, sputtered, 
snapped and crackled on the hearth of the old brick 
fireplace, in front of him. Rubbing his hands together 
for the hundredth time that morning, as he sat en- 
grossed in deep speculation on the future plans of his 
daughter, when the subject of his thoughts came into 
the room unannounced. Quickly putting her arms 
around the old gentleman’s neck, gave him a tender 
little hug and lovingly patted his old wrinkled brow 
with her small white hand. All was done so unex- 
pectedly and kindly that he could make no answer 
until it was all over. Looking up in her beautiful and 
lovely face, as she stood beside him, his old heart 
leaped and thumped for joy, as he received from her 
beaming countenance the message of filial love and 
devotion. 

He sat in silence for some little time, and as he 
did so he thought how beautiful it is, how cheering 
and comforting to be thus surrounded. The wither- 
ing and decaying oak is made to appear verdant and 
promising by the clinging ivy; old age is nurtured 
when sustained by the presence of youth and beauty; 
in my daughter there is joy, solace, happiness and 
comfort, and a companionship tinctured with the 
purest blush of modesty and love. How can I ever 
reward such tender afiPections? How can I compen- 
sate her obedience and kindliness toward her father? 
I shall try, and if I am successful in weaning her 

71 


3tt6ur %)t. Clai't 


away from the fascination of her youth, in breaking 
down her love for Arthur St. Clair, then I shall have 
done her a kindness and myself a great favor. I may 
just as well commence to put my plans into operation, 
for now is as good a chance as I can hope to get, and 
as she seems so happy this morning, perhaps she will 
listen to my judgment. 

Turning away from the fire a little and facing his 
daughter he began a conversation : 

^‘How did you enjoy the dance the other evening 
with the young army officer, Virginia?’’ 

"‘Oh! quite well, papa. He is an excellent waltzer, 
a fine conversationalist and very entertaining, I assure 
you.” 

“Virginia, I am delighted with your answer, for I 
am very favorably impressed with the young man, and 
believe his success cannot be questioned.” 

“I quite agree with you, papa, that as an army of- 
ficer he will no doubt, if given an opportunity, make a 
gallant, brave and successful commander, but ” 

“But what?” 

“Oh, nothing!” 

“Yes, there was something you were about to say, 
but you have concluded not to do so, for some reason. 
Say on, my daughter — what is it?” 

“I was about to say that war has no charms for me. 
It grates too harshly upon my nerves, and its accom- 
paniments of slaughter and carnage are by no means 
pleasing, to one who loves to hear the harmonious 
notes of peace and good will toward men. True, the 
spectacular side of war, with its parades, trappings 
and gilded braid is awe-inspiring, entertaining and en- 
rapturing, and causes the heart to throb with patriot- 
72 


ffl)f g)ID JFott IRccotietg 

ism, but the sickening and revolting cruelty of war is 
too dreadful for approval/’ 

“But, my dearest daughter, our country is at peace 
with all the world, our people happy and prosperous, 
and there is not the slightest cause for war. In fact, 
our soldiers have but little else for their employment 
than to appear in dress parades and keep their arms 
polished brightly. There is no possible danger ! But 
I’ll wager a twop’nce that Major Arthur has seen ac- 
tual service, and that he has heard guns fired, that 
were not discharged in target practice. And what do 
you say, in order to determine the question, we send 
him an invitation to dine with us in a few days, fixing 
the time to suit his pleasure ?” 

“If it is your desire, papa, very well and good; but 
he comes as your guest, and the task of entertaining 
him will fall to your lot. I am not in the least inter- 
ested in war or army officers, and since all the world 
is at peace, I do not see the necessity of majors and 
commanders, and as to your opinion as to his real 
service, you may be right about it, and I hope that he 
may have done something, which entitles him to the 
rank he assumes. I dare say, if he should accept your 
invitation, you will have an opportunity to investigate 
his career.” 

“Never mind about the entertainment. I shall see 
to it that the Major is kept busy, for I intend to find 
out all about his experience in war.” 

“Yes, papa, I anticipate you, and I believe it was 
Othello’s oft-told stories of adventure that won the 
heart of the fair Desdemona, was it not ?” 

“Quite right you are in your classics, but I did not 
intend ” 


73 


3ttl)Ut ^t. Clait 


“Yes, I understand you very well, my dear signior. 
But the Major is not the Moor, and I am by no means 
the daughter of Old Brabantio, although I hold as 
high a reverence for the paternal edict, as did the fair 
Italian, who was wooed and won by the oft relating of 
a story of the Anthropopagi. But I believe that men 
no longer wear their heads beneath their shoulders, as 
did that strange people, but prefer to have them 
gracefully poised on top, and as this attitude so be- 
icome the men, why should not the women approve 
the manner and fashion and do likewise?’^ 

“You mean by this, if I follow you correctly, that 
you are going to be on your guard and receive the 
Major’s story of his adventures with a judgment 
formed before you hear them?” 

“I intended to impress you with the idea that I shall 
wear my head upon my shoulders, and that there will 
be no wooing and winning by the Major, papa, even 
though his stories of adventure are more thrilling than 
those of the Moor. My dear signior will not be com- 
pelled to summon the duke to listen to the tale of the 
wrongs of Brabantio.” 

“Very well, my daughter, this we will determine 
later, but for the present let us prepare and post the 
invitation at once, and I shall ask you to pen a brief 
note, inviting the Major to be with us for dinner.” 

Paper, quill and ink were soon assembled, and the 
missive drawn in a fine, round hand, to which the 
elder attached his cognomen with a bold and lavish 
use of ink, and as he did so, remarked : 

“The pen is mightier than the sword.” 

“Yes, that is true, my father, and there is more vir- 
tue in the quill of the repulsive buzzard, when wrought 

74 


flPf DID jTott Kccotictg 

into a pen, than in all the renowned Damascus 
blades/^ 

“And in that you have scored one on the Major.” 

“No, I did not so intend it; but the truth will pre- 
vail, even though it take the lustre from the family 
escutcheon of your Major.” 

This last thrust was too much for the old gentle- 
man. He was nonplussed, and showed his feelings in 
his countenance, and his daughter seeing his discom- 
fiture could not refrain from having a little pleasure 
at his expense. 

“Oh! papa, you are so proud of your Major, we 
shall have to take good care of him when he comes, 
and won’t it be facetious should it turn out that he 
never smelled burned powder? Ha! ha! papa’s 
Major.” 

The old gentleman remained quiet, collecting his 
thoughts and wincing a little at his daughter’s levity 
over his seeming interest in the Major, and turning 
the subject to the invitation suggested. 

“The wax and candle is here, seal the letter and 
call a servant to post it at once, that the Major may 
receive it without delay.” 

Obedience prompts the action, and no sooner said 
than done. The daughter applied the wax to the 
candle, and placed a neat little seal on the white en- 
velope, and after inspecting it carefully called a serv- 
ant, and with a merry laugh, said to him : 

“Here, Rastus, now be on your guard, and post 
this letter at once. Do not soil it, as it’s for the 
Major!” 

After delivering the message, the daughter returned 
to her father, feeling that so far she had the best of 

75 


attfiur Clair 


the argument, she was anxious to continue the topic, 
and sitting down near the venerable sire she turned 
about facing him, waiting for the renewal of the 
contest. 

“Now, my daughter, ofttimes have I importuned 
you to forget and forego your earliest love for Arthur 
St. Clair, and I am more sincere and anxious than 
ever. I am getting along in years, and I should like 
to have this matter settled before I am called away, 
for when I am gone I fear that your old love would 
be enkindled anew, and the spark that has lain dor- 
mant so long would naturally turn to the affections 
of your childhood, unless you should beforehand find 
another to supplant this childish fancy. You are quite 
conversant of the barrier between his family and your 
own, and this obstacle cannot be removed, or at least 
I shall never give my consent to its dissolution. His 
family has done me a wrong that cannot and never 
shall be forgotten, and I very much regret that you 
so steadfastly cling to liis memory. Long since he 
has forgotten you and blotted from his mind the 
youthful fascination, and what you are retaining for 
him can be nothing more than a foolish and idle 
dream, never to be realized. His people are poor, 
without position or influence, and without the promise 
of a single virtue. So, my daughter, remove his 
likeness from your mind and make room for another. 
You have reached an age in life when you should com- 
plete your plans for the future, while I have ‘fallen 
into the sere, the yellow leaf,’ and have no desire but 
your welfare; no joy, but your pleasure; no comfort, 
but your happiness; no future, but that which shall 
76 


i)f DID jfott iReconetg 

culminate in the climax of my daughter's pure and 
virtuous love of one who is ever worthy of her/’ 

“It is certainly very kind of you, my father, to have 
and to hold such interest in your only child, and I am 
not unmindful of your desires. However, in the heart 
there is room for only one picture. When virtuous 
love shall have inscribed upon the tablets of memory a 
likeness of the heart’s fascination, that imprint will 
hold the colors of affection so long as the heart is 
true. Obedience to you, my father, has ever been 
the pleasure and deportment of your daughter, in all 
things, except one, and in that there is no obstinacy 
or incorrigibility, but the fault, if it may be called by 
such harsh terms, is in no sense charged to my ac- 
count. For years I have struggled with myself to 
come within the radius of your desire, but all to no 
purpose. It has been long years since I saw Arthur 
St. Clair, and perhaps I shall never see him again, but 
whether I do or not, his likeness shall decorate the 
walls of my heart so long as my blood runs warm.” 

“I am not unmindful of the tragic differences and 
family feuds of the St. Clairs and Luwallings, but 
neither he nor I have contributed the slightest indorse- 
ment of this discordant condition. Time smooths out 
the furrowed frown of malice, and with the flight of 
years there should have come to you that forgiving 
tenderness, which is the melodious accompaniment of 
gray hairs and wrinkled brow. No daughter has ever 
doted upon the desires of her father with purer filial 
affection than I ; none have trod more nearly within 
the purlieu of parental precept than I ; none have more 
wholly avoided the primrose path of dalliance than 
I; but as my father loved my mother, so do I love 

77 


attftur %)t. Clait 

him whose picture is indelibly written across the sa- 
cred precincts of my soul.” 

With this little climax Virginia retired from the 
room, leaving her venerable father to peruse the sub- 
ject in his own reflections as far as he liked. While 
the old gentleman had been touched by the reference 
to his companion, who had gone before, he quietly 
sat by the warm fire in deep and silent meditation, and 
no further reference was made to the subject for the 
present. 

A few days later, while at the breakfast table, a 
small white note was handed across the table by the 
father to his daughter. A hasty examination of its 
contents apprised Virginia that the invitation had been 
accepted and the Major was going to break bread with 
them within a fortnight. The letter soon became a 
theme for converse. Miss Virginia broaching the sub- 
ject. 

‘T see he has accepted your invitation, father, and 
we are soon to have your Major with us. I am very 
glad of this, since his presence will, no doubt, afford 
you much pleasure and entertainment, and I shall try 
and enjoy his coming.” 

The old gentleman feeling that in the last encounter 
with his daughter he was slightly worsted, refrained 
from entering into a discussion of the topic, and thus 
let the matter drop without a word of comment. How- 
ever, he looked forward to the day named with great 
expectations, while preparations went on for the 
Major^s coming. 

About the middle of January, and along about 
eleven o^clock in the forenoon, an army officer was 
seen moving along one of the finest residence streets 

78 


ffl)f flPlD JFott Kccoaetg 

of Philadelphia with a stride that told at once he was 
not going to war. With the same gallant bearing he 
mounted the steps and entered the residence of Mr. 
James Luwalling, and the door closes behind him, 
while those who saw surmised the purpose of the call. 

A colored servant greeted him with southern hos- 
pitality, and relieving him of his great coat and hat, 
conducted him into the fine old parlor, where burned 
a good log fire in the old fireplace. Luwalling and 
his daughter arose on his entrance to the room, and, 
with outstretched hands and beaming countenances, 
welcomed him with that cordiality that gives the as- 
surance more than the formal bow that you are by no 
means an intruder. The old gentleman shook his hand 
with the clasp of friendship, for he was delighted 
with his visit. Miss Virginia’s salutation was friendly, 
reserved and ladylike, with a merry twinkle in her eye, 
as she appreciated the fact that her father was playing 
an interesting part in the drama of life, the same was 
to her a little facetious. 

It was not long until they were settled down into an 
interesting conversation on various subjects, the old 
gentleman watching an opportunity to introduce the 
theme of great importance to him, and which would 
require the Major to give some account of his war 
experiences. Miss Virginia knew her father’s incli- 
nation, engaged the Major with such bewitching con- 
verse that she was on the point of absorbing his whole 
attention. More than once the old gentleman would 
say, '‘Beg pahdon, Majah A'thur,” all of which Vir- 
ginia pretended not to hear, but continued talking and 
laughing with such animation, that the poor old fellow 
was on the point of giving up in despair. However, 

79 


9ttl)ur Clait 


after a bit there came a lull in the contest of words, 
and now was her father^s opportunity, and he seized 
upon it with alacrity. 

“Majah A’thur, you have no doubt had some ex- 
perience in war, have you not?’^ 

“Well, very little — scarcely worth mentioning; in 
fact, I never refer to it, unless my attention is called 
to the subject, and then but briefly. I have had a lit- 
tle experience with the Indians, but that has been a 
long time ago, and, I assure you, that it is of very lit- 
tle consequence, although I should not like to undergo 
a similar adventure. There is always a sad recollec- 
tion of a bloody battle, that one does not care to men- 
tion; its scenes of slaughter, carnage, suffering and 
misery that are too painful to relate.’^ 

“Then, Majah A’thur, do I understand you to say 
that you were in a real battle with the Indians?’^ 

“Yes, I presume the engagement arose to the dig- 
nity of a battle, as I remember, it was fierce and 
bloody.^’ 

“Where was it fought?” 

“It was an engagement with the Indians in the west- 
ern part of the territory of Ohio, and the battle is 
known in history as St. Clair's Defeat.” 

“St. Clair’s Defeat!” exclaimed Virginia, and her 
father simultaneously, and they both leaned forward 
in their chairs to catch the next word of the narrator. 
And the old gentleman pursued the inquiry: 

“And you were in that battle? I wish, Majah 
A’thur, you would relate to us a full account of this 
whole disastrous affair. My daughter and I would 
like very much to hear you tell it.” 

Arthur hesitated, and looked with searching 
8o 


flPf flPIO jrott Hecotetg 

thoughts into the face of Virginia for her request. 
She had become interested in spite of herself. The 
name St. Clair had awakened a smouldering thought, 
she must know more, she must hear the story, and 
from her own lips came the entreaty : 

‘‘Major Arthur, if the recurring scenes of this tragic 
struggle are not too painful to you, I shall be more 
than interested in receiving from one who participated 
in the bloody engagement, a full account of its re- 
volting horrors.’' 

“If it is your pleasure I shall gladly undertake to 
review for you the little that I remember of it, al- 
though I promise, you will agree with me, that the 
story is more sad than entertaining. It is so to me, 
for the memory of that dreadful day haunts me still, 
and like a monstrous and grotesque figure, its giant 
shadow spreads with the flight of years, too revolt- 
ing and dreadful to relate in the presence of ladies, 
and to awful for men to dwell upon. I can do noth- 
ing more than but give you an outline of the bloody 
contest.” 


CHAPTER X 

THE MARCH AND CAMP LIFE 

Arthur St. Clair, an officer in the Old French War, 
a Major-General in the army of the Revolution and 
president of the Continental Congress, was appointed 
Governor of the Northwest Territory in 1788, with 
Winthrop Saergent as secretary, who also acted as 
chief magistrate in the absence of the Governor. 
When General St. Clair came to the territory in July, 
81 


attftut Clair 


1788, the Indian tribes along the Wabash were 
taciturn, morose and sullen, and in some instances 
quite hostile toward the encroaching settlers. They 
continued to invade the Kentucky settlements, destroy- 
ing property and greatly harassing the pioneers, until 
George Rogers Clark, an intrepid, courageous and 
brave commander, at the head of the Kentucky vol- 
unteers, in return for their depredations, destroyed 
their villages and waged a relentless warfare against 
them. Immigration to this unsettled and unknown 
territory was greatly retarded. The tomahawk and 
the scalping knife were a menace to the adventurer, 
a terror to the settler and a horrible dread to the 
pioneer and his family. 

The blood-curdling stories of those who, by provi- 
dence or strategy, had escaped the deadly blow of 
these munitions of Indian warfare, were poured into 
the ears of the more eastern settlers, with such effect, 
that many a brave yeoman would not forego the hap- 
piness of his own fireside to seek adventure among 
the redmen. 

At the close of the Revolution the regular army, if 
entitled to such appellation, had been reduced to a 
mere handful — only seven hundred men comprised its 
number, and no officer was retained above the rank 
of captain. This meagre force was still further emas- 
culated, until it numbered but twenty-five men, who 
were left to guard the stores at' Pittsburg, and fifty 
men to perform military duty at West Point, and 
other places where munitions were stored. 

At this time it was estimated that all the Indian 
tribes in the Northwest Territory did not number to 
exceed twenty thousand souls. And among them were 
82 


ffl)f flPlti JFort Eecouetg 

British emissaries, who were kindling the fires of ha- 
tred, and encouraging them to wage hostilities against 
the whites. These agents made their headquarters 
at the frontier forts, which had not been surrendered 
and turned over by Great Britain, according to the 
terms of the treaty with the United States. The mili- 
tary force of this territory at this time consisted of 
about six hundred men under the command of Gen- 
eral Harmar, who had been appointed a Brigadier- 
General on the 31st day of July, 1787. 

In the early part of 1789 Governor St. Clair held 
a council of peace at Ft. Harmar, at the mouth of 
the Muskingum River. Here were assembled the 
chiefs and sachems of the Six Nations, together with 
the representatives of the Indian tribes from the Mo- 
hawk Valley to the Wabash River. Old agreements 
and treaties were confirmed and boundaries estab- 
lished, which was by no means satisfactory to many 
of the tribes, who refused to accept the terms, and 
contended they were not binding upon them. Within 
a fortnight after the council had broken up at this 
fort bands of marauding Indians, in crimson paint 
and feather, were wearing the frown of war with 
menacing threats against the frontiers of Virginia and 
Kentucky. 

It became evident that permanent peace with the 
Indians could not be considered with safety to the 
settlers. They waylaid the boats, wounded and plun- 
dered the immigrants all along the river from Pitts- 
burg to the falls of the Ohio. The plunder thus re- 
ceived accentuated their insatiable appetite for blood. 
General Harmar endeavored to chastise them, but his 
expedition, though well intended, proved a disaster, 

83 


attDut Clair 


and his command was defeated at the Maumee Ford 
in October, 1790, with the loss of many of his brave 
men. 

The Federal Government proclaimed, in most as- 
suring terms, that the occupancy of the territory by 
the white man meant only peace and friendship and 
not war and bloodshed. These appeals, however, 
failed to have the pacific effect for which they were 
intended. The Indian could not be convinced of his 
error by these conciliatory measures, although the 
Government acted in good faith in its promulgation. 
Instead of becoming reconciled by these fatherly 
words of peace, he became aroused, renewed his dep- 
redations, and the work of his burning torch painted 
the western heavens aglow with the flames of pioneer 
homes. The Indian alone would doubtless have been 
satisfied, he would have watched the encroachment of 
the paleface upon his peaceful home and happy hunt- 
ing grounds with a sad heart, and a longing desire 
to be unmolested, but nothing more. However, there 
was among them the infamous Simon Girty, a rene- 
gade white man, at the mention of whose name for 
more than twenty years the women and children of 
that western country turned pale, and quaked with 
fear and trembling. ’Twas he who kept the fires of 
hatred burning upon the council floors of the Indians. 
The debt he owed to human kind he paid by placing 
to the lips of innocent women and children the wassail 
of Indian brutality. May his name ever be a synonym 
of the most contemptible villain of any country on 
earth. 

The several tribes of Indians were not without lead- 
ers ; in fact, they were led by the bravest of the brave. 

84 


©f ©ID jFott IRecoDerg 


The tribes of the west were under Little Turtle, chief 
of the Miamies, a leader of courage and rare ability. 
Blue Jacket, Chief of the Shawnees and Buck-ong- 
gee-a-helos. Chief of the Delawares, now confederated 
to resist the whites and drive them, if possible beyond 
the Ohio River, which the Indian regarded as the 
boundary of their territory. Cornplanter, a famous 
chief, at the table of General Wayne, at Legionville, 
in 1793, said: 

“My mind is on that river,’" pointing to the Ohio; 
“may that water ever continue to remain the boundary 
of lasting peace between the redman and his pale- 
face brother.” 

The expeditions of Harmar and Scott and Wilkin- 
son were directed against the Miamies and Shawnees, 
with instructions to destroy or pacify them. A re- 
lentless war of spoliation was waged against them; 
their villages were burned; their cornfields despoiled 
and their women and children taken into captivity, 
which seemed to exasperate and arouse them to more 
desperate efforts, to defend their hunting grounds, 
their homes and to harass the settlers and invaders. 

In the meantime, preparations were being pushed 
for the main expedition of General St. Clair, the pur- 
pose of which was to secure control over the savages 
by establishing a chain of forts from the Ohio River 
to Lake Erie, and especially by securing a strong posi- 
tion in the heart of the Miami country. The defeat of 
General Harmar proved the necessity of a strong 
check upon the Indians of the Northwest. 

Indeed, the main object of the campaign of 1791 
was to build a fort at the junction of the St. Mary 
and the St. Joseph rivers, which was to be connected 

85 


^rtftur §)t> Clait 

by other intermediate forts or stations with Ft. Wash- 
ington, thus affording protection for the settlers from 
the great lakes to the Ohio River. 

In his advance to the Miami Village, St. Clair was 
directed to establish such posts of communication with 
Ft. Washington as should be deemed proper, while the 
post at the confluence of the St. Mary and St. Joseph 
was intended for the purpose of awing and curbing 
the Indians in that quarter, and as the only preventive 
of future hostilities. It was necessary that it should 
be made secure against all attacks and onslaughts of 
the Indians. The garrison to be stationed there was 
not only intended for defense of the place, but to al- 
ways afford a detachment of five or six hundred men, 
either to chastise any of the Wabash Indians, or other 
hostile tribes and to secure a safe convoy of pro- 
visions. 

General St. Clair began the organization of an army 
in April, 1790, at Pittsburg, under the instructions of 
the Secretary of War. At this point horses, stores 
and munitions were assembled, and on the 15th day 
of May, we reached Ft. Washington, on the Ohio 
River. (Where Cincinnati now stands.) The United 
States troops in the west at this time amounted to 
but two hundred and sixty-four non-commissioned of- 
ficers and privates, who were fit for duty, and on the 
15th day of July the first regiment, containing two 
hundred and ninety-nine men, reached this fort. 

General Butler — poor, brave fellow, who fell in the 
engagement soon to follow — was appointed second in 
command, and during the months of April and May 
was busily engaged in obtaining recruits, but in this 
particular he was greatly handicapped, as there was 
86 


©f ©in jFott Keconetg 


no money to pay them, nor to provide stores for their 
sustenance. There was great insufficiency in the 
quartermaster’s department. Tents, pack-saddles, 
cooking utensils, knapsacks and cartridge boxes were 
all deficient, both in quantity and quality. The powder 
was of an inferior quality or damaged; the arms and 
accoutrements out of repair, and no proper or suf- 
ficient tools with which to mend them. Of the six 
hundred and sixty-five stands of arms at Ft. Wash- 
ington, designed by St. Clair for the militia, scarcely 
any were in order, and with the two traveling forges 
there were no anvils, except small ones, which were 
of little or no service. The troops were slow in gath- 
ering at the fort, and there were many vexatious de- 
tentions at Pittsburg and other points. Intemperance 
prevailed to an annoying extent at the fort, and bad 
whisky was demoralizing the army. General St. Clair, 
in order to improve conditions, caused the soldiers, 
now numbering about two thousand men, to be re- 
moved to Ludlow Station, six miles away. 

The army continued here until the 17th day of Sep- 
tember, 1791, when being about two thousand, three 
hundred strong, moved forward to a point on the 
great Miami River, where they proceeded to construct 
a fort, called Fort Hamilton, the first in the chain of 
fortresses. 

On the thirteenth, however. General St. Clair recon- 
noitred the country carefully, and selected the location 
for the purpose of a deposit of stores and supplies. 
Two hundred men were set to work the next day, un- 
der the direction of Major Ferguson, erecting the new 
fort. This was the second in the chain of fortifica- 
tions, and was named Ft. Jefferson, in honor of the 

87 


attftur Clai't 


great author of the American Independence. On the 
morning of the 24th, after the completion of these 
forts, the army again took up the march, and pursued 
an old Indian trail, leading northward through a fine 
open forest, and after advancing a number of miles, 
encamped along the banks of a small creek, with a 
large open prairie on the west. At this place St. 
Clair did not build a fort, but established and main- 
tained a camp and supply depot, and afterward Wayne 
constructed a fort here, and called it Ft. Greenville. 

Early in the morning of the 3d of November, 1791, 
the drowsy soldier was aroused from his slumber by 
the tap of the drum, and a hurried breakfast pre- 
pared, after which they were ordered to fall in line, 
with little delay when the meal was finished. Taking 
up the line of march, we moved northward, bearing 
a little to the west, through an unbroken forest, and 
over an old Indian path that ran from the lakes to 
the Ohio River. Few white men had ever traveled 
it, but it had been in use for many years by the In- 
dians. We pushed on, making pretty good advance, 
though we were in no great hurry, as the country be- 
ing new and unknown, much precaution was used to 
learn our surroundings. 

Our forces consisted of about fourteen hundred 
men, and there were also with us about two hundred 
and fifty women, and young ladies, wives and daugh- 
ters of the soldiers, who had come along, little know- 
ing whither they were going. 

We were equipped with all kinds of arms, from 
fowling pieces to blunderbusses, and some with flint- 
lock squirrel rifles. Four small brass cannon, with 
caisson attached, was the full complement of our bat- 


flPf flPlD JFott Eccotoctg 

tery, while about three hundred militia, poorly armed, 
comprised the whole of our motley force, very few 
of whom had ever seen any real service or ever had 
any experience in coping with the redman, the yeo- 
men of the forest, whose vigil never slackens, and 
whose stealth is cunning personified, whose footsteps 
rustle not even the leaves upon which he treads, nor 
marks his course through the unbroken forest. 

All day long the lowering clouds hung close to the 
ground, and the air seemed to contain a breath of 
snow. Already the frosts of autumn had painted the 
mighty primeval forest in nature’s richest colors, vary- 
ing from maple’s yellow to the deepest crimson. As 
we moved along, we seemed quite a large body of 
men and women, and so many of us, we were assured, 
in our own minds, that the unbroken forest before us 
contained no foe in number, that could give us the 
slightest apprehension of fear. Little did we then 
know the danger that surrounded us upon every hand. 

On and on we marched with little or no effort to 
maintain our columns. The mounted men in front, 
then the infantry, and last the women. The cannon 
were hauled in a more or less varying line, in order 
to avoid the timber. Grand Old Arthur St. Clair, the 
bravest of the brave, charitable to a fault, courageous 
to a point of censure, and chivalrous to the last, rode 
the head of his men. Grand, noble, prudent and watch- 
ful, mounted upon a white charger, that had seen bet- 
ter days, this specimen of the Revolutionary soldier, 
statesman, governor and general, presented a striking 
and imposing sight. His long, white hair, clubbed 
and powdered, hung out from under a tri-cockade. 
His sword, that had already served its country well, 

89 


attftut ^t. Clai't 


rattled and clanked at his side. Erect, gallant and 
commanding, he gave to his men the assurance their 
confidence might be entrusted to him with fidelity. 
Although suffering intensely with the gout, he bore 
the pain without complaint or murmur, and was pa- 
tient, alert and took a deep interest in all that was 
passing around him. 

As the shades of evening were gathering and dark- 
ness had began to deepen in the recesses of the forest 
the word “Halt !” was passed along the lines, and many 
a weary and foot-sore yeoman willingly gave up the 
march for the camp. We had proceeded to the banks 
of a small stream, at one time thought to be the 
Pickaway Fork of the Omee, but since determined to 
be the Wabash River, a distance of about ninety-eight 
miles from Ft. Washington. 

Our purpose was to erect a block-house or wooden 
fort, the same as we had done at Ft. Jefferson, but the 
fatigue of the men prevented General St. Clair from 
having any works immediately erected that evening, 
' as he had intended. 

The ground upon which we were encamped for the 
night was high, dry and pleasantly situated, and not 
being very large in area, we were crowded closely 
together, and much more than usual. The stream 
swung around to the south, just skirting a high bank, 
which our front line paralleled, then ran a short dis- 
tance almost west, bearing a little to the north. There 
was low wet land on both our flanks, and along most 
of our rear, and across the river to the north ; in fact, 
we were pretty well surrounded by a sort of swail 
and river bottom, all of which was covered with a 
thick growth of tall dead grass, cattails, willows and 
90 


2Df SDia jFort KecoDerp 


small timber. Across the river and on beyond the 
low bottoms the land gently rose to some elevation, 
to which point our militia advanced and bivouacked 
for the night. 

Major Ferguson, commanding officer of the artil- 
lery, was sent forth at once, and plans were discussed 
and adopted for the building of the fort, its location 
agreed upon, and the work was to commence at the 
morning’s dawn. 

As the shadows deepened into night’s sombre shade^ 
silence fell upon the surroundings. The dense foli- 
age overhead, so thick that the noonday sun could 
scarcely penetrate the archway of murmuring leaves, 
while in the deep, tangled depths of the wild wood 
lurked the red foe, hawk eyed and wolf hearted, 
watching, waiting, panting with impatience to strike 
the blow. In all that solitude, scarcely had a sound 
broken the continuity of silence, except the sharp re- 
port of the Indian’s rifle, to which was soon to be 
added the tocsin of war. 

The night had not far advanced when frequent fir- 
ing of the sentinels broke in upon the night air; their 
sharp, piercing crack disturbed the camp, and fright- 
ened the women and alarmed the officers. Guards 
and reconnoitering parties kept reporting the Indians 
were skulking about in considerable numbers. 

Ten o’clock came, and but little sleep. General But- 
ler, who commanded our right wing, was directed to 
send out an intelligent officer and party for informa- 
tion, that the true situation might be ascertained. 

Captain Slough, with two subalterns and thirty men, 
paraded in front of General Butler’s tent at a little 
after ten o’clock. The General was much exercised, 

91 


attftut Clait 


and seemed to have some apprehension that the enemy 
was about us in large numbers. He gave the captain 
very strict and particular orders just how to proceed, 
making doubly sure of the presence of the enemy, if 
any were near. This effort brought but little news to 
the officers. Some sign of the foe was discovered, but 
in the cover of the darkness the Indian had no trouble 
to conceal his presence from his pale faced enemy. 
Little Turtle and, in all probability, Tecumseh, two of 
the greatest Indian warriors known to history, were 
there, and had watched the white man in his forward 
movement, ready to strike the deadly blow, when ad- 
vantage was assured. No better opportunity for sav- 
age ferocity was ever presented, and this the wily In- 
dian leaders well knew. The ground was ideal for 
stealth and surprise; the tall grass, willows, timber 
and logs, with which the entire camp was surrounded, 
gave the red foeman an advantage which he well knew 
how to use. 

Two or three officers remained with General Butler 
until a late hour, discussing their conditions and sur- 
roundings, then returned to the tent of the com- 
mander-in-chief, Major Ebenezer Denney, aide-de- 
camp of General St. Clair, had received a wound in 
the hand, which disabled him to the extent he was in- 
capable of making up the report of the day. Being a 
fairly good penman, I was called into service, and as- 
sisted in recording the events, as dictated by the Gen- 
eral, which took us until a late hour, and when my 
work was finished, I returned to my own tent to see 
how my comrade was deporting himself. To niy sur- 
prise, he was awake and much out of sorts, as you will 
observe from our conversation. 

92 


S)f DID JFort KecoDcrp 


'‘Well, hello, comrade! I thought you'd be asleep 
by this time!” 

"Gwan, there! it's not mesilf th^t 'ud be slapin' 
whin ther's a lot of pisky In jins about.'' 

“You are not afraid of them, are you?'' 

“Naw, I’m not 'fraid oov inny uf the loiks of thim; 
but phat I dun’t loik uf thim is they be kapin’ me 
awake whin Oi’d be after slapin’. Phy dun't they 
cum 'round in the marnin’, like gintlemen, und act 
loik min. If they want to fight, lit thim cum 'round 
to me tint to-morrow marnin’, and say to me : 

“Good marnin', do yees want to foight?' Thin lad 
ye see me go for thim.” 

“I am afraid, comrade, you are not going to get 
along with the Indians very well, and if you get to 
fight them, you certainly will have to fight Indian 
fashion, or some redskin will be wearing your scalp 
at his belt.” 

“Oi tell yees, lad, if they foight me, they’ll foight 
the way I want thim to or they’ll git hurt, that's all, 
und the foirst dirty blackgar-rud thet lay his hands 
on me scalp O’ll be after rakin' me huntin' knife 
across his windpipe.” 

“There ! there ! my dear old comrade, don’t get an- 
gry, but let us turn in for the night, for I surmise we 
have a hard day’s work before us.” 

Quietly, without further comment, we rolled our- 
selves in our blankets, and my good comrade was soon 
sleeping the sleep of the innocent. For myself, I 
could not fasten down my eyelids, nor could I drive 
from my mind the thoughts of my dear mother. How 
I had wronged her, and could I ever atone for it. As 

93 


artftut ^t» Clait 

I lay there, I thought I could hear her prayers for 
her absent boy. 

Silence fell like a pall o’er the sleeping men and 
women. The wind blew through the autumn leaves 
with a breath of winter, and disturbed the canopy of 
matted foliage. No sound broke in upon the night, 
except the call of the sentinels, and now and then the 
crack of the rifle in the distance, which gave proof 
that the enemy was near. But few of the men had 
tents, and many were compelled to sleep upon the 
ground in the open, with little or no covering to pro- 
tect them from the evening’s chill. 

Finding I could not sleep, I arose and went out of 
my tent, and looked about me. As far out in the dark- 
ness as I could see stood the trunks of giant forest 
trees, the vigils of the night. While here and there 
dimly burned the wooden chunks of a smouldering 
fire, that when fanned by that autumnal gust, the 
sparks went upward and outward, expiring in their 
brief flight. 

CHAPTER XI 

THE BATTLE 

The morning’s gray dawn, with its streaks of light, 
gave proof that the day was standing on tiptoe, look- 
ing over the eastern horizon, when the tap of the kettle- 
drum aroused the drowsy soldiers from their waken- 
ing slumbers. Nature had robed the woodland with 
her mantle of purest white, spreading a curtain, upon 
which the crimson gore of human carnage was soon 
to be portrayed in blood and massacre. The snow 
that had fallen during the night was so light that it 

94 



Where the Indians were concealed 


on the morning 


of 


the 


4th. 


(Aithur St. Clair.)— P 96 






i)f ffl)ID jFott Eecotjetp 


was little more than a heavy hoar frost, and yet, in 
looking some distance away, everything seemed whit- 
ened with age. 

On a piece of rising ground, timbered with mighty 
forest trees of oak, ash and hickory the encampment 
was spread along the bank of a fordable stream, and 
extending north and south, with our four cannons 
arranged in the centre. Outside of our camp, and to 
north across the stream was an elevated plain, cov- 
ered with an open front of stately trees. There our 
militia, three hundred and fifty independent, half in- 
subordinate men, under Lieutenant Oldham, of Ken- 
tucky, were encamped. 

The sun had not yet risen on the morning of the 
4th of November when all the troops were out and fin- 
ished the usual parade. They had been dismissed 
from the lines, and had returned to prepare their 
meagre breakfast. Scarcely had the streaming light 
of the rising sun began to blaze its way through the 
forest, like threads of burnished gold, ere frying- 
pans, coffee-pots and cooking utensils were hurriedly 
exchanged for instruments of war. A half-cooked 
meal was deserted by hungry men with reluctance. 
The call “To Arms!” flew from lip to lip, and rusty 
flint-locks were seized with heroic hands, whose quick- 
ening pulse was soon to be forever stilled. An un- 
appeased appetite must now gormandize on the scenes 
of war, whose bloody carnage ere long stopped their 
gnawing hunger. The leaving of the larger portion 
of our stores and supplies at the last camp made short 
rations and necessitated sending back the first regi 
ment to bring up the supply of provisions, and if 
possible, overtake and arrest some of the deserters, 

95 


gttftut %)t» Claic 

three hundred of whom had left us, and were return- 
ing to their homes. The men had but little supper and 
no breakfast, and we were by no means conditioned 
for the struggle about to take place. 

The beginning of the battle was sudden, desperate 
and unannounced. The main body of the troops were 
apprised of the beginning with consternation and 
alarm, as two thousand savage throats rent the morn- 
ing air with a fiendish yell, following like an echo upon 
the discharge of their musketry. The first attack was 
made upon the militia, who were thrown into disorder 
at the very beginning. A maddened frenzy seized 
them. They could not be controlled or managed. 
Lieutenant Oldham commanded, shouted at the top 
of his voice and with menacing dignity tried in vain 
to stem the tide of human fear and to bring discipline 
out of disorder, but all to no purpose. The sudden- 
ness of the attack, and the terrific yells of the infuri- 
ated savages were more than inexperienced men could 
withstand. The fire was returned by a single desul- 
tory volley, when they broke, gave way and fled into 
the very arms of the enemy, who were expecting and 
ready to receive them with bloody hands. The result 
was terribly disastrous, and the greater number of the 
militia were left dead or wounded, without having 
done any injury to their savage foes. 

The low ground between the main camp and the 
position of the militia was occupied by the enemy. The 
rank grass, weeds and willows, with which these bot- 
toms were thickly covered, afforded them an excellent 
hiding place, where they were completely hidden while 
lying down; and this low swale of land extended 
pretty well around the camp, and was generally in- 
96 


flPf ffl)lD JFort Rccotietg 

fested with Indians hiding behind trees, logs and fallen 
timber. 

Our troops in the main camp were soon in order. 
General Butler being present and General St. Clair 
arriving on foot soon after, every effort was made 
to check the fleeing militia, and counteract the disor- 
der caused by the precipitous arrival of Oldham’s 
scared and frantic men. This was never wholly ac- 
complished, and the militia never fully recovered from 
their fright during the engagement. 

The pursuing savages were close upon the heels of 
the fleeing men, and it took extraordinary effort to 
check them. Our artillery and musketry made a most 
tremendous noise. All four of our cannon were loaded 
and fired with great rapidity, but with little or no exe- 
cution, as the enemy were on lower ground, scatter- 
ing to avoid its effect, they moved to the right and 
left, completely surrounding the camp. 

The first line met and withstood the shock for some 
time, but the fire was so rapid, and the aim of the 
enemy so deadly, that it soon thinned their ranks, and 
the men began to look to the second line for support. 
In this particular their hopes were in vain, for they, 
too, had been attacked, and a fierce and bloody battle 
was on. The fire of the enemy was mostly directed 
to the centre of the lines, where the artillery was 
placed, and from which the men were driven with great 
slaughter. 

The Indians fought Indian fashion, advancing from 
one tree, log or stump to another, and all the while 
unseen, but loading and firing with death-dealing ef- 
fect. General St. Clair was not in his uniform, but 
wore a coarse cappo coat and three-cornered hat, his 

97 


3ttl)ur %it Clait 


long queue and heavy gray locks flowed beneath his 
beaver. Early in the action, when near the artillery, 
a ball grazed the side of his face, cutting away a por- 
tion of one of his silver locks, just as he was advanc- 
ing to command the front line, which he lead in per- 
son, his presence giving his men confidence, with re- 
newed energy, they drove the enemy before them and 
regained the ground lost before his arrival. 

The Indians braved everything and fought like en- 
raged beasts, and when they had encompassed our 
army they kept up a constant fire, which told with 
fatal effect, although scarcely heard. The left flank, 
probably from the nature of the ground, gave way 
first, and the enemy rushing in to take possession of 
this part of the encampment, collected in large num- 
bers, affording a good mark for our bullets, and be- 
ing open and exposed, they were soon driven from 
their position. 

In the struggle, the fire of the enemy being con- 
centrated largely upon the centre of our camp, the 
emergency required drastic measures, and Colonel 
Darke was directed to charge them with the bayonet. 
No sooner ordered than acted upon. The brave 
Colonel, with a portion of the second line, charged 
the enemy with success. They instantly gave way, and 
were driven back several hundred yards. This posi- 
tion should have been maintained, and would have 
been but for the want of sufficient number of rifle- 
men to preserve and hold the advantage gained. Re- 
loading as they retreated from the gleaming bayonets, 
the enemy renewed their attack, and the brave Colonel 
and his men in turn were forced to give way. At this 
instant the Indians, maddened with their success, 
98 


flDf 2DID JFott Hecoijctp 


again entered our camp on the left, having forced 
back the troops stationed at that point, and another 
bayonet charge was ordered and made by Major But- 
ler, a brother of General Butler, and Colonel Clark 
with great success. The savages were driven back 
with heavy loss. Several other charges were made by 
these gallant leaders with equal effect, and the enemy 
was forced from shelter, but no sooner had the charg- 
ing party started to return, in order to keep in com- 
munication with the main camp, than the Indians 
fired upon their backs, with deadly results. These 
charges could not be repeated very often, for each 
time the officers became targets for their well-aimed 
rifles. 

In the charge made by the second regiment. Major 
Butler was dangerously wounded, and every officer of 
that regiment fell, except three, one of whom was shot 
through the body. The Major was at the head of his 
men, urging them on when he fell. His fall caused 
his men to give way, and the Indians, noting this 
dilemma, rushed upon us, and it was with great hazard 
that we were able to get him away safely. 

Fierce, deadly and terrific waged the bloody battle. 
Men and officers on every hand performed numberless 
heroic deeds, and the commanders especially were cau- 
tious, prudent and courageous throughout the engage- 
ment. General St. Clair and General Butler were con- 
tinually going up and down the lines, and all the time 
exposed to the fire of the enemy. As one went up, the 
other down the opposite, and thus they were con- 
stantly encouraging their men. St. Clair was so se- 
verely afflicted with the gout as to render him unable 
to mount or dismount a horse without assistance. He 

99 


Ztthnt Clair 


had four horses for his use, and they had been turned 
out to feed overnight, but fortunately were brought 
in before the beginning of the battle. The first one he 
attempted to mount, at the beginning of the action, was 
a young horse, but the firing so frightened him that 
he was unable to accomplish it, although three or four 
were assisting him. Several unsuccessful attempts 
were made, and finally he moved him to a place where 
he could have some advantage of the ground, and re- 
newed the effort to mount, and when about to accom- 
plish it, the horse received a bullet in the head and fell, 
while the boy who was holding the animal was shot 
through the arm. A second horse was brought forth 
at once,' and the bridle and saddle taken from the dead 
horse was placed upon him, but while the general 
was inspecting the girth the animal and the servant 
who held him were killed. The third horse was or- 
dered, and when ready was to be brought to him at the 
left of the front line, which, by that time, was warmly 
engaged, and the delay becoming vexatious, the gen- 
eral set off on foot with all possible haste to the point 
designated. However, the man and the horse were 
never heard of afterward, and in all probability both 
were killed. The general’s fourth horse was killed 
under the Count Malartie, one of his aides, whose 
horse had died on the march. Being without a mount, 
he exerted himself on foot for a considerable time 
during the action, with a degree of alertness that sur- 
prised all who saw him. For the time being, the ex- 
citement had made him forget his painful gout, and 
after being on foot until almost exhausted a pack 
horse was brought for him, which he rode during the 
day, although it was with difficulty that the animal 
100 


©f DID jFott KecoDetp 


could be spurred out of a walk. Thus poorly mounted 
and suffering the rigors of a painful disease, he 
seemed everywhere present, directing, commanding 
and encouraging his men, his gleaming sword pointed 
the way to deeds of valor. Eight bullets passed 
through his clothing, yet nothing daunted him. 

On came the painted foe, with menace and death, 
creeping closer and closer to our diminishing lines, 
springing from tree to tree, skulking through the cover 
of the underbrush, unseen except when leaping up to 
deliver their deadly fire, they approached our shiver- 
ing flanks, until at length they formed a complete cir- 
cle of flame around our distracted army. 

Butler and Darke were brave and courageous of- 
ficers, and strove with heroic effort, to bear up against 
this galling fire, but it was too deadly for human en- 
durance. General Butler soon fell, mortally wounded, 
and the Indians, emboldened by their success, leaped 
from their hiding places, and with uplifted tomahawks, 
accompanied by the most unearthly yells, rushed upon 
our disordered ranks. The carnage was terrible, and 
upon it all, and over it all, arose the bright morning 
sun, pouring its flood of light on the mingled hosts, 
in battle array, wrapped in a cloud of smoke of their 
own making, that hung on the early morn like a veil 
of death. 

Major Butler, although so badly wounded he could 
not mount his horse alone, was helped into his saddle 
and led his men into charge after charge, fighting 
with maddened desperation, each time to be driven 
back upon a more disheartened, distracted and help- 
less army. 

The best officers having fallen, all order was lost; 
lOI 


attftut §)t. Clait 


all discipline gone; frenzied with fear, the men hud- 
dled together in a dense but helpless mass, and were 
mowed down with frightful rapidity. All around this 
frightened group of humanity, the braver and more 
experienced soldiers were seen struggling single- 
handed with their painted foe, while the edges of this 
human throng crumbled away like the banks of a 
mist before the morning sun. 

The men being thus left with only a few officers, 
became disheartened, and despairing of success, gave 
up the battle. To save themselves they abandoned 
their ground and crowded in toward the centre of the 
field, at a point where the wounded had been carried 
at the beginning of the engagement, as this was 
thought to be the safest. Twice were the poor fellows 
taken out to the lines, but all to no purpose, and 
rushing back in a panic, they became helpless and 
hopeless. 

The Indians at length secured the artillery, but not 
until the officers were all killed but one, and he was 
badly wounded when the cannons were spiked. As 
the lines of our army were gradually deserted, the 
Indians drew closer. Their shots then centered and 
with deliberate aim the execution was fearful. There 
was, too, a cross-fire, and officers and men fell in every 
direction. The distress and cries of the wounded 
were indescribable, and no tongue will ever tell what 
they suffered. To this dreadful confusion were added 
the cries of the women, who were huddled together, 
hiding here and there, as best they could, in tents and 
behind trees and logs. No effort had been made to 
protect them or lead them to a place of safe re- 
treat, and in fact this could not have been done, if 
102 


©f ©ID JFott KccoDetg 


desired, there being no place and no troops to furnish 
an escort. The Indians gave their attention mostly to 
the soldiers and had paid but little notice to the wo- 
men, although many of them were killed during the 
battle. 

All was disorder, confusion and distress on every 
hand. General Butler, mortally wounded ; Colonel 
Oldham, fallen; Ferguson, Hart and Clark, reported 
dead. Delay for a few moments and all is lost and 
retreat impossible. No time for planning; no truce; 
no respite; hundreds of brave men and scores of 
lovely women must be left upon the field of battle, 
to be assaulted, outraged and murdered by human 
fiends. 

There was no alternative but retreat; no safety but 
flight; no succor but the fleetness of one’s own limbs. 
Nine o’clock, and scarcely had three hours elapsed 
since the beginning of the onslaught, and yet what a 
dreadful change had been wrought. That little battle- 
field presented a horrid and revolting aspect — the 
ground was literally covered with the dead, dying 
and wounded, and among them the maddened and 
frenzied savages rushed with tomahawk uplifted and 
scalping knife running red with human gore, crush- 
ing in the skulls of those still breathing, or ripping 
out the bowels of the wounded and tearing the scalps 
from their helpless victims with insatiable wrath. 

General Butler was among the fallen, and had to be 
deserted upon the field of bloody horror; no aid at 
hand; escape impossible; he lay weltering in his own 
blood ; his frame racked with intense pain ; an enraged 
red demon approached, and rushing upon him with 
brutal savagery, buried his tomahawk in his brain, 
103 


attf)ut Sit. Clai'r 


tore away his scalp, and not having appeased his 
brutal atrocity, dug out his heart and divided it into 
as many pieces as there were tribes and distributed 
them about. 

Something must be done to save the few remaining 
men and women. “Retreat !” “Retreat !” shouted Gen- 
eral St. Clair, and Colonel Darke was ordered to push 
forward with his handful of men and charge the In- 
dians in the rear and open up a passage way through 
the enemies’ lines. The sound of retreat gave the 
men courage, and the hope of escape aroused them 
to actioh. The remnant of that bleeding and broken 
army broke into a wild headlong flight. The Indians 
temporarily gave way, as they had no suspicion that 
the charge of Colonel Darke’s forces was intended 
for the advance movement of a retreat. After the 
enemy fell back the men were for a moment unde- 
cided through fear, when Catharine Miller rushed by 
like the flight of an arrow. She wore unplaited a 
profusion of red hair, so bright and golden, that it 
blazed and flashed in the morning sun like a beacon 
light on Mount Seir. The effect was magic. The 
stoutest and most active now took lead, and those who 
were foremost in breaking through the lines of the 
enemy, were soon in the rear. On flew the oriflamme 
of red hair like a frightened gazelle, and following 
close behind were men and women, soldiers and offi- 
cers, fleeing for their lives, all in one mottled mass of 
struggling, frightened humanity, while close upon 
their heels came the relentless, infuriated and blood- 
thirsty foe ; so close, that the hot breath of the pursuer 
was felt upon the face of the pursued. The deadly 
tomahawk could be plainly heard crushing in the 
104 


2Df S)ID jFott KecoDerp 


skulls of the overtaken ; the heart-rending screams of 
the women soon ended by a crushing blow or the 
deadly thrust of the hunting knife. 

Here and there in our maddened flight were over- 
taken and passed the wounded and maimed; they 
could hold out no longer ; human energy had been ex- 
hausted ; weakened from the loss of blood, they could 
go no farther. Soon to fall into the hands of the 
deadly pursuer, whose aproach was close at hand, 
their lamentations were heartrending; their supplica- 
tions pitiable; their appeals for aid would melt a 
heart of adamant. To stop to assist them was certain 
death; to pass them by seemed inhumanly cruel, and 
yet on and on the more able-bodied hastened, bent in 
his own selfish desire to save himself. However, there 
were many attempts at the beginning of the flight to 
save those who were near and dear, but those who 
undertook to carry another upon his back, and run 
with such unnatural load, soon learned that he was 
rapidly falling in the rear, and that the enemy was 
gaining upon him. Wounded men and women were 
thus compelled to loosen their holds about the neck 
of their would-be rescuer, and in some instances, this 
could be accomplished only by cutting off their fin- 
gers, as they held on with a deathlike grip, to fall at 
the feet of their insatiable foes. 

The Indians came on like a wolf at the fold. 

Their cohorts in numbers that have never been told. 
And the brutal frowns on their faces they wore. 
Were masked and crimsoned with human gore. 


105 


3tt6ut %>t. Clait 


CHAPTER XII 

AFTER THE BATTLE 

Perhaps in all history there is not recorded a more 
bloody, atrocious and revolting tragedy than the one 
enacted on that November morning. Only a small 
part of the bloody accompaniment, set to the discord- 
ant terror of savage brutality will ever be known, and 
but little will be transcribed upon the pages of his- 
tory; enough perhaps may be preserved to posterity 
to give some idea of what humanity has suffered for 
humanity’s sake. There were many deeds of valor 
performed on that day, the like of which have few 
equals, but their authors will never be known and the 
record of their deeds never kept. 

In our maddened flight for safety, the thought up- 
permost in the mind of everyone was his own personal 
welfare. Major Clark with a battalion covered the 
rear as best he could and did all that was possible to 
protect the fleeing soldiers and •turn the Indians back. 
The camp had been entirely abandoned with the 
wounded men and women and all the equipage, as 
well as our artillery, which for want of horses to draw 
it, was left in the hands of the enemy, who had no 
possible use for it, except to exercise their wrath in 
its destruction, which was soon accomplished, and the 
barrels thrown in the river. 

The route of our flight could be traced for miles 
by fire-locks, cartridge boxes and regimentals strewn 
upon the ground, as they had been discarded by some 
io6 


flOf ffl)lD jFort Hecotietg 

weary soldier in his efforts to lighten his burden. 
And there were other and more serious evidence of 
the course and nature of that flight, for here and 
there through the woods, by the willows, over against 
the fallen monarch of the forest, down by the bab- 
bling stream, and in the thick clump of underbrush 
were human faces, upturned to that November sun, 
bearing the marks of human orgies, the stain of hu- 
man blood, and the proof of insatiable brute force. 

At first the whole band of Indians within rifle 
range fired upon us as we ran, but this did not con- 
tinue, however, a great while, although we were fol- 
lowed some distance by a very great number, many of 
whom turned back for the spoils of the camp, and 
thus the firing gradually ceased ; but the Indians were 
still pursuing. Small bands of them outstripping the 
men and women and surrounding them, overtaking 
the wounded or exhausted, capturing those who, from 
loss of blood or fright, could go no further. 

Soon after the firing ceased General St. Clair sent 
forward an officer with instructions to gain the front, 
and, if possible, to cause a halt until the rear 
might reach the main body of the army. The 
officer succeeded in bringing this about for a short 
time, but could not restrain them long. We were, 
indeed, a most miserable and defenseless body of men 
and women. Fear of being overtaken, and the hor- 
rors of what had been witnessed, entirely unnerved 
them, and the most lamentable cry went up “to push 
on.” It was most fortunate for us that pursuit was 
discontinued, for a single Indian might have followed 
with perfect safety on either flank, and had they 
continued in their savage desperation, but few, if any, 
107 


attfiur ^t. Claic 

would have held out until they were met by the first 
regiment. 

General St. Qair was the last to leave the field of 
battle, remaining at the rear for two reasons : one, to 
guard and protect the interest of his men, as far as 
possible, and the other was on account of the condi- 
tion of his mount, which kept him behind until the 
afternoon, when a detachment of the first regiment 
met our retreating army. This regiment was the only 
complete and best-disciplined portion of the whole 
body of men. They were thirty miles from the battle- 
field, when the sound of firing cannon broke the morn- 
ing stillness and told of the raging contest. They 
well knew the cause of it all, and moved forward with 
all possible speed to the assistance of their distressed 
countrymen, and had marched about nine miles, when 
they were met by some of Oldham’s men. Major 
Hamtrack, the commanding officer, with uncovered 
head and face wet with tears, received the sad intel- 
ligence of the ill-fated army. The condition of the 
men and women as they continued to come up, moved 
the major to the deepest sympathy and told better 
than tongue can describe of the ordeal through which 
they had just passed. The regiment could render no 
assistance to the army by going further over the line 
of retreat, but could be of great aid in protecting 
them against further attack, which was probable. 

It was thought best to send a subaltern to obtain 
some knowledge of the situation in the rear, and to 
return with his regiment to Fort Jefferson, eight 
miles back, and secure that post at all events. This 
theory was acted upon, and all moved forward for 
the fort, the same being the second one built in the 
io8 


2Df ©ID Jfott IRecoDetp 


line of defences. At last, about dark, the tired and 
half-starved men and women reached the portals of 
this crude blockhouse, to fall prostrate with sheer ex- 
haustion. Heaven’s pearly gates and streets of gold 
will not be hailed with greater joy or more thankful 
hearts than was this temporary haven of rest and pro- 
tection. For hours after the main body had reached 
the fort, there continued to arrive stragglers, who, 
with superhuman strength, had pushed on until at last 
they had reached this goal, more dead than alive. 

Of the two hundred and fifty women who were 
with the army, fifty-six were killed in battle, while 
many more lost their lives on the retreat, and a great 
number were taken captive by the Indians, to be 
subjected to barbarous and inhuman treatment, such 
as only savage brutality could invent. Fewer than 
one hundred reached Fort Washington, after an ex- 
perience that beggars all description. 

After determining to return to Fort Jefferson with 
the balance of the troops, a halt was ordered until St. 
Clair arrived, which was no great while. A very poor 
old man, on an old. broken, pack-horse, presented a 
sorrowful and touching sight. Colonel Hamtramck 
went out to meet him, and clasping his hand remained 
silent for a moment, when the Colonel in deepest 
sympathy, remarked: 

“If the first regiment had been present. General, 
the result would have been different.” To which the 
general replied : 

“Your desire to have been present to assist your 
countrymen is certainly very laudable and no one ap- 
preciates it more than I, although I very sincerely 
doubt whether you would have succeeded in doing 
109 


attftut Clait 


more than increase the death-roll. Your misfortune 
in being absent is more than overcome by your good 
luck in being elsewhere. It was terrible, Colonel — 
simply dreadful ! My heart is sad and almost broken. 
I have witnessed several battles. I have looked upon 
human slaughter, but this day’s work was simply a 
reign of terror, and the field of action drenched with 
human blood. It was the most disastrous and terrible 
of them all.” 

When the General was through speaking, his face 
was wet with tears, and his voice came up in his 
throat and stopped their further conversation. The 
poor old man was a pitiable sight. 

A forward movement was ordered, and we started 
on, a sad and mournful remnant of a broken army. A 
few hours’ march and we reached Fort Jefferson, 
twenty-seven miles from the field of action, without 
provisions of any kind, and not having tasted a 
mouthful of food for twenty-four hours. A convoy 
of provisions was on the road and within a day’s 
march, but the wait seemed almost impossible, as our 
hunger had reached a point of desperation. After a 
careful consideration of the situation, it was deter- 
mined by General St. Clair, that on account of the 
accommodations and size of the fort, that it would 
not be advisable to remain over night with the whole 
force. At ten o’clock that night the general ordered 
all who were able, to form in line and start at once 
for Fort Hamilton. The advance was very slow, and 
the place was not reached until the afternoon of the 
sixth, while General St. Clair arrived there in the 
morning. 

The women and wounded, and those who were un- 


IIO 


S)f ©ID jFort IRecoDetp 


able to go any further were left at Fort Jefferson, 
where they were made as comfortable as possible. A 
body of the most experienced fighters were left at the 
fort to protect the place against assault until they 
were able to move forward to Fort Hamilton, which 
they accordingly did in a few days. After reaching 
Fort Washington, and having rested for a short time, 
our hunger in the meantime having been fully satis- 
fied, the men began to relate their personal experi- 
ences, some of which seemed almost incredible. I 
cannot repeat all that I heard told, but only some of 
the more interesting adventures will be related. 

Mr. James McDowell told me in graphic manner 
his experience in the battle and on the retreat. 

“Rising very early I found the ground covered with 
slushy snow, which very much retarded the movement 
of the men. At the commencement of the action sev- 
eral of us were out looking for our horses, when sud- 
denly our hair was raised by the most hideous yells, 
followed by the rapid firing of musketry. We all 
rushed into camp, joining our forces, who were pre- 
paring for action, and I soon after went with the 
force that charged down the river bank and into the 
tall grass that covered the bottom. In our retreat an 
incident occurred that touched me greatly. As we 
were rushing along pell mell, relieving ourselves of 
everything that would impede our progress, I chanced 
to see a woman in sore distress. At her bosom clung 
an innocent babe. The child was about a year old, I 
should judge, and was a great hindrance to its mother. 
She had struggled along for nearly three miles from 
camp and was completely exhausted ; further prog- 
ress with the babe in her arms was impossible. To 
III 


attfjur Clair 


relieve her, I took the child and carried it for a short 
distance, encouraging the mother all I could; other 
duties arose that demanded my attention, and I was 
compelled to give the babe over to the mother. The 
Indians were gaining upon her and she must soon be 
overtaken, if the child was not abandoned. I saw 
her fall while the enemy was almost in reach of her, 
and the infant rolled from her arms. No time to pick 
it up — no time for delay; hard upon her with toma- 
hawk raised, came the painted foe — not even time to 
snatch a kiss from the innocent brow. The mother, 
relieved of her burden, bounded forth, while her 
pursuer paused in his wrath, lifted up the bundle and 
seeing its contents, pressed to his savage bosom the 
little innocent babe.'’ 

While at the fort I also heard Major Jacob Fowler 
relating to those about him some of his personal ex- 
periences. The Major had participated in a great 
many struggles with the Indians and was their equal 
in field or forest, and he said: 

“I had been using my trusty squirrel rifle, supply- 
ing the camp with game, as our stock of provisions 
was running very low, and we were on half rations 
most of the time. My stock of bullets had reached a 
point of scarcity and about daylight on the morning of 
the fourth, I started to go over where the militia were 
encamped to get a ladle for moulding more of the 
leaden pellets, when I discovered that trouble had 
commenced, and I met them running like wild men 
into the main body of troops. As they passed me, I 
noticed that one of Oldham's men had a badly shat- 
tered wrist, and I stopped him and inquired if he had 
any balls to spare. He told me he would divide with 


II2 


Df DID JFott IRccotietg 

me. Taking his shot pouch I poured out a double 
handful and put back what I supposed was the half, 
and was about to leave him, when he said : ‘Stop, you 
had better count them!’ It was no time for levity, 
but his remark was so facetious I could hardly resist 
the impulse to laugh. Stopping, while being attacked 
by a band of blood-thirsty Indians, to count a handful 
of bullets, and I said to him : ‘If we get through with 
this day’s scrap, my dear fellow, and I find you have 
any further use for bullets, I shall be pleased to re- 
turn twice as many.’ But I never saw that jolly fel- 
low again and owe the leaden pellets to this day. 

“After leaving my Kentucky comrade, I turned back 
to the main camp and saw an Indian behind a small 
tree, not more than twenty yards away, and just out- 
side the regular lines. He was loading his gun and 
squatting down as much as possible to hide himself. 
I thought, ‘Old fellow. I’ll let you taste one of my bor- 
rowed bullets and see how you like them.’ I drew 
sight at his hips and let him have it, but did not 
stop to ask him whether he was satisfied, but sup- 
pose he was, as he made no complaint. Leaving him 
with the borrowed lead, I went to the rear line, where 
Colonel Darke was leading about three hundred men 
to charge the Indians with bayonets, and, of course, 
I followed with my rifle, and soon got my share of 
Indians. Being an experienced woodsman and 
hunter, I suggested to the Colonel a certain movement 
should be made, and he shouted to me : ‘Lead the way 
then!’ And I did, but we got into a mix-up where 
there were more Indians than I was looking for. 
They closed around us and drove us toward the centre 
of the camp, where we soon found ourselves along- 

113 


3tt|)ur @)t. Clait 


side of the army baggage and artillery, of which they 
had already taken possession. I got behind a tree, 
loading and firing several times as fast as I could, at 
a distance of two or three rods; I was surprised that 
my man did not fall, and I began to think that my 
borrowed lead was not intended for Indians, but 
remembering that my first victim liked his bullets 
about the hips, I concluded that perhaps others had 
the same preference, and as it made no difference to 
me, I thereafter accommodated quite a few of them. 

‘‘While I was hugging close to my tree, as I felt 
much safer there on account of the manner in which 
the regulars were using their muskets, I looked up 
from my work and saw Colonel Darke’s command, 
which had now dwindled down to about thirty, and the 
brave Colonel was waving his sword, trying to encour- 
age his men, when I ran over to him and told him we 
would be all shot down, if we didn’t charge on them. 
‘Charge, then !’ said he to his little band of brave men, 
and they did. Fortunately, the army had charged on 
the other side at the same time, which put the Indians 
for the moment to flight. I looked around and found 
a small tree that was unoccupied, and getting up as 
close to it as I could, I saw a couple of Indians, who 
had gotten behind a larger one, and about that time 
they fired at me so close I could almost taste the 
powder. At first I thought I was cut in two, but 
finding I wasn’t hurt, I quickly discharged my rifle 
without taking aim, and let the one who stood his 
ground have a taste of it at close range, and he 
tumbled upon the ground, and while he was crawling 
away on all fours. Colonel Darke, who had just dis- 
mounted close by me, made at him and struck off 
1 14 



Wayne St., Ft. Recovery, O. 

This is the actual scene of the battle. The fort occupied the site of the 
buildings on the left, 


(.^rthpr St. Clair.)— P. 115, 


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his head with his sword. I soon after saw another 
Indian break for a tree about forty yards away, be- 
hind which he loaded and fired four or five times, 
bringing down his man every time. In his hurry he 
got from behind his tree just a little too far, when I 
let him have some of his own treatment, and had no 
further trouble with him. By this time the army was 
breaking up and making off rapidly, the savages in 
full chase, hardly twenty yards behind. Being very 
active, I soon got from the rear to the front, although 
I had r-ruch trouble to avoid the bayonets which the 
men had thrown off in their retreat, with the sharp 
point toward their pursuers. The Indians kept hot 
after us, falling back every other shot, then running 
to make up for lost time, and in this way they fol- 
lowed us for several miles. 

‘‘While Colonel Darke was making his last desperate 
charge, the dead and dying lay around us, almost en- 
tirely covering the ground, and the freshly scalped 
heads reeking with smoke in the heavy morning frost, 
looked like a field of pumpkins in December, while the 
ground was saturated with the blood of those who 
had fallen in the awful carnage.” 

Of the many and varied accounts that were told and 
retold by those who experienced them, none is perhaps 
more interesting than that of William Kennan, a young 
man of about eighteen, who was attached to the corps 
rangers, who accompanied the regular force, and of 
wonderful physique and activity in muscular attain- 
ment, who gave me the following narrative : 

“Just as the day was dawning, myself and about 
twenty rangers observed some thirty Indians ad- 
vancing very cautiously within one hundred yards of 

115 


attftut Clait 


where we were standing, and supposing them to be a 
mere scouting party, I sprang forward to a bunch of 
rank grass to shelter myself and fired upon the fore- 
most one, not doubting but what the rangers would 
support me. The enemy rushed upon them in such 
overwhelming numbers that they were compelled to 
fly for their lives, leaving me to do the best I could. 
The captain of the company, seeing my distress, 
shouted : ‘Run, Kennan, or you are a dead man !’ The 
Indians were within ten feet of me, while the com- 
pany was more than a hundred yards in front. See- 
ing my danger, and not a moment to lose, I sprang 
forward and was pursued by a dozen of the enemy 
with loud yells. I ran for the fort with all possible 
speed, and was outstripping my pursuers, when the 
Indians who had passed me, while I was lying down, 
headed me off, and another Indian, Chief Messhawa, 
noted for his swiftness, pressed uncomfortably close 
upon the rear. In the circuit which I was forced to 
make, I had run about four hundred yards, and we 
were only about eighteen feet apart, and I could not 
widen the breach, nor could he diminish it, each of us 
putting his whole soul in the race. 

“My pursuer held aloft a tomahawk in a menacing 
attitude, and fearing that he might throw it, I con- 
cluded that I would meet my antagonist in this line, 
but imagine my surprise, when I discovered that I 
was totally disarmed. I had slackened my pace some, 
and the chief was close upon me, and my hair lifted 
my cap from my head when I saw how helpless I 
was. The only means of escape left me was my limbs, 
and of these I made the best possible use. In watch- 
ing my pursuer, I had paid but little attention to the 
ii6 


Df 2DIB Jfott Kecoijetp 


nature of the ground before me, and suddenly found 
myself confronted by a fallen tree, which lay upon the 
ground and was eight or nine feet in height. What 
was to be done? I could not go around it and not a 
moment to deliberate. I must clear the impediment 
or my scalp will decorate my pursuer’s belt. The 
Indian thus far had not uttered the slightest sound, 
but seeing my predicament, gave a short, quick yell 
as secure of his victim. I thought, ‘over that log I 
must go,’ and over I went, clearing limbs, brush and 
everything, and landed on the other side in perfect 
safety. A loud yell of astonishment burst from the 
band of pursuers, but not one of them attempted the 
same feat. 

“In the retreat, I was attached to Major Clark’s 
battalion and aided in protecting the rear. We had 
not gone far, however, when the Major fell, and the 
corps was soon disorganized, and flight being the 
only means of escape, it was not long until I was at 
the front, passing several horsemen. As I was rush- 
ing along ahead of most of all the others, I beheld a 
private in my own company, and a very dear and in- 
timate friend of mine, lying upon the ground with 
his thigh broken. He held out his hands and with the 
most pitiable lamentations begged me to save him. 
The peril of the moment was imminent, the most 
terrible danger was at hand and a moment’s delay 
might prove fatal. Yet his appeal was heartrending 
and I could not pass by him. Quickly placing him 
upon my back, I ran for several hundred yards, while 
many horsemen passed me, all of whom refused to 
relieve me of my burden. Rapidly my strength was 
failing me; the burden was too much to bear and 
117 


attftut Clair 


keep out of the reach of the enemy, who were coming 
closer each moment, and I saw that it would all soon 
I be over with us. I said to my friend as we hurried 
along: 'I have made every possible effort to save you 
from the savage foes at our heels, even at the risk 
of my own life, but all in vain. My strength is rap- 
idly failing under the weight of your body and I shall 
soon be prostrated. The Indians are gaining upon 
us and will soon strike the deadly blow that will send 
you and I to the happy hunting-ground, unless you 
relinquish your hold around my neck. It is only a 
question of whether you prefer to die with me, or 
whether you would as soon die alone, for in either 
event you must perish.’ 

'The thoughts of falling into the hands of the sav- 
age brutes, who were close upon us, so frightened 
him, that the poor distracted fellow would not listen 
to reason, and convulsively clinging to my neck, 
begged me most tenderly to not let him down. The 
foremost of the enemy were now within twenty yards, 
and with uplifted tomahawks were crushing in the 
skulls of those about us. The poor fellow begged me 
to push on faster, which I tried to do, my panting 
breath coming so fast that I could scarcely answer, 
but there is a limit to human strength and endurance, 
and I found that I was rapidly reaching the point of 
exhaustion. Knowing that we both would perish in a 
few minutes, and being satisfied that I had done for 
my friend all I could do, and all that I could ask him 
to do for me, I drew my hunting knife — there was no 
other way — as I did not have the strength to loosen 
his hold, and quickly severed in twain the fingers of 
my poor unfortunate friend, and he fell to the ground 
Ii8 



“I quickly put my rifle to my shoulder; a sharp 
report rang out, and he plunged forward Upon^ 
his face/’ 


(Arthur St Clair )— P. 119, 






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©( 2DID Jfort Kecotoetp 


in utter helplessness, and in another instant his soul 
took its flight into the eternal world, as his scalp took 
its place at the belt of his foe, who with savage glee 
grunted ‘nuthern/ 

^‘My own personal experience in this bloody contest, 
I scarcely ever mention, but feeling that perhaps you 
might find it interesting, I shall relate it, although it 
savors a bit of romance. Rushing along in great 
hurry, striving to gain and keep the front, I was at- 
tracted by a woman’s voice and stopped to listen. 
Looking in the direction of the sound, I saw a young 
lady sitting on a log, and approaching her, I learned 
that she had received a wound in the foot, from which 
she was suffering great pain, and was so crippled 
she could make little or no headway in escaping. She 
begged me to assist her, if I would, and her face, so 
tender and pure, pleaded more pathetically than her 
words, and I could not refuse, though I should perish 
in the attempt. Rushing to a clump of bushes, I soon 
cut a limb with a fork at the top, and taking off my 
fur cap, and placing it in the crotch, it made a very 
excellent crutch. Taking hold of her arm, we put 
off with all possible speed, although many were pass- 
ing us. Our progress was comparatively slow, and 
the Indians were within hearing, the sound of their 
rifles coming closer. One big old savage, who was 
painted most hideously, saw our dilemma, and with an 
exultant cry dashed after us, but about the time he 
came within thirty yards, I quickly put my rifle to 
my shoulder ; a sharp report rang out, and he plunged 
forward upon his face. Looking about, my young 
lady was on her knees praying. Assuring her that we 
could not take the time to offer our novenas, but that 
119 


art|)ur Clait 


we must push on, she quickly arose and crippled 
along without my assistance, as I was -loading my 
rifle for an emergency. We were getting greatly be- 
hind the foremost ones, and the enemy came closer 
upon the rear, all of which greatly worried and dis- 
tressed the young woman, and she began to lose hope, 
begging me to leave her and save myself. She rea- 
soned with me, that if I remained behind with her, 
we would both lose our lives, while if I should aban- 
don her, I could certainly escape. Her words were 
convincing of the truth she was speaking, but her 
upturned face, and eyes overflowing with tears that 
were running down across her cheeks, told me that 
she hoped I would not abandon her. Picking her in 
my arms, I ran with all possible speed for a hundred 
yards or so, but my gun and trappings being a great 
hindrance, and her weight being too much of a bur- 
den, I was soon exhausted and was forced to put her 
down. Standing with one foot upon the ground, her 
small right hand resting upon my shoulder, she again 
pleaded with me to leave her to the cruel fate that 
awaited her. I was undecided what to do, until look- 
ing down at that soul-reflected countenance that 
pleaded so tenderly, I could not — I did not have the 
heart to abandon such womanly grace and virtue to 
the ravages of our brutal and blood-thirsty pur- 
suers. Scarcely had the resolution been formed to 
save her life or perish with her, than there came rid- 
ing by my old bunk mate, and at the sound of my 
voice, he drew rein with such force he set the black 
charger back on his haunches, and dismounted before 
the animal could recover. Rushing toward me, and 
bringing the horse along, his voice was the sweetest 
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2Df ©ID jFort KecoDetp 


music that ever fell on mortal ears, and I shall never 
forget his words and actions. ‘Hello, me boy ! Sur-r, 
thets a good tur-rn yees be doin’ in protictin’ thet 
young lass. No time fu-r compl-ments. Give me yir 
foot and niver mind the spur-rs. There now, ye-r 
astride Major Clark’s horse — he want nade him inny 
more, since he’s gone where they don’t use horses. 
Me young lady, yees must ride in froont. Gin me yir 
fire-lock and shot-pouch, lad, I want to gin me ’tintion 
to these pesky divils thets after us. Now, lad, yir 
off! Ride like the Divil’s arter ye, and niver mind 
yer adoos, me boy, but pay attintion to yir jooty.’ 

“Scarcely had we left the good soul when we heard 
the report of his rifle, and looking back I saw an In- 
dian fall, and watched him reloading as he ran, and 
many dusky foes were suddenly stopped by his uner- 
ring aim. 

“On that dreadful day the death-roll was almost in- 
credible, nine hundred Americans were killed or 
wounded, and some Indians, perhaps fewer than one 
hundred, at least they always claimed they only lost 
thirty-seven killed and a few injured. Their true 
loss could not be ascertained as they carried their 
dead from the field. One old squaw told me that she 
scalped the white soldiers that day until she was ex- 
hausted, and this was no doubt true. The list of offi- 
cers lost will give some idea of how the private sol- 
diers suffered. Majors Ferguson, Hart and Clark; 
Captains Bradford, Phelon, Kirkwood, Price, Van 
Swerington, Tipton, Purdey, Smith, Platt, Gaither, 
Creebs and Newman; Lieutenants Spear, Warren, 
Boyd, McGrath, Burgess, Kelso, Read, Little, Hop- 
per and Lickens; also Ensigns Cobb, Balch, Chase, 
I2I 


attftut @)t. Clait 


Turner, Wilson, Brooks, Beatty and Purdy; also 
Quartermasters Reynolds and Ward; Adjutants An- 
derson and Doc Grasson were all numbered with the 
dead and in one common sepulchre lay. Colonel Sar- 
geant, the Adjutant-General, Colonel Darke, Colonel 
Gibson, Major Butler and Viscount Malartie were 
severely wounded.” 

Such a ghastly and revolting scene as that bloody 
field presented has never been witnessed on the Amer- 
ican Continent before or since. The dead and dying 
were everywhere; scarcely could one step for their 
bodies, and in many places they lay in heaps, one 
above another, all in frightful mutilation. The blood 
had run in rivers here and there, and now stood in the 
hollows of that woodland grove in stagnant pools and 
revolting coagulation, in which there lay naked men 
and women, hacked and gashed with the brutal hand 
of enraged savagery. The Indians in their contempt 
of the rapacity of the encroaching settlers, who were 
seeking their lands, filled the mouths of the dead with 
earth, while the wounded, in several instances, were 
inhumanly tortured by driving a sharpened stake 
through their bodies. 

Thus were they left unattended and unburied in the 
November sun, all alone, save the nocturnal visits of 
the hungry wolf, who came to gormandize on human 
flesh, and the owl, whose wings flapped and rustled 
as he wheeled his flight o’er their bleaching bones. 
That night the moon rose, pouring a flood of mellow 
light upon this bloody, but lifeless space. Through 
the thick foliage here and there fell a silvery moon- 
beam, lighting up the face of the dead. In this sylvan 
morgue, moved here and there the bent form of hu- 


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man vultures, seeking a spark of life upon which they 
could feed their insatiable wrath, but the rapacity of 
the Indian foe had silenced the pulse of his pale-faced 
brother. 

Then winter came with its wind and snow, spread- 
ing a mantle of purest white over their silent forms; 
while through the forest trees the winds whistled and 
sighed a sad and solemn requiem to the unsepul- 
chred dead. 

Two years later, when General Wayne with his 
army visited the battle-ground, its appearance was ap- 
palling, revolting and melancholy. Within the in- 
credible small space of three hundred and fifty yards 
were found five hundred skull bones and for five miles 
in the direction of the retreat, human skeletons and 
muskets marked the course of their flight. 

That November snow with its stains of gore 
Had melted away ere the noontide hour, 

But the debt we owe to those who fell 
Is ever present in that scene of Hell. 


CHAPTER XIII 

A BIT OF ROMANCE 

Major Arthur became a frequent visitor to the 
home of the Luwallings, and both Virginia and her 
father enjoyed his company, and especially the old 
gentleman, who had been captivated by the young 
man. The story of his experience with the Indians, 
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attftur Claft 


which was quite often supplemented by additional ad- 
ventures, was always an interesting topic to Mr. Lu- 
walling, and rarely, if ever, did the Major make a 
visit without it being mentioned in some way. It was 
by no means uninteresting to Miss Virginia, and she 
had many questions to ask about the women that were 
in the battle, and what became of the young lady that 
the gallant Major carried away on the black charger, 
but some way the answers were not entirely satisfac- 
tory. There lurked in her bosom a womanly suspi- 
cion, that perhaps there were some very interesting 
facts in connection with this bit of romance which have 
not yet been told. She also noted that the Major 
answered her questions reluctantly and sometimes 
would say, ‘T don’t know.” 

One evening after the Major had passed the whole 
afternoon at the Luwalling home, Virginia and her 
venerable father sat by the blazing fire, its soft mel- 
low glow lighting the room, and were engaged in 
deep meditation. The old gentleman, after thinking 
over what he ought to say, began a conversation with 
his daughter, but proceeded slowly and cautiously. 

'The Major’s account of General St. Clair’s defeat 
and the loss of so many of his brave men was very 
interesting to me. How the poor fellows must have 
fought, and their sufferings were certainly terrible. 
The encroachment of the white man upon their hunt- 
ing grounds was no doubt annoying to them, and they 
saw their approaching destiny, which meant sooner or 
later they must move on. To this the fire and hatred 
of Girty was thrown in the balance, and the Indian in 
his desperation determined to strike a blow in defence 
of that which was rightfully his own.” 

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Df ©ID JFott IRecoDetg 


*‘Yes, but father, while I have no patience with war, 
battles and the shedding of human blood, I think the 
Indians were in the wrong, as there is so much land 
in this country, they should have gone farther to the 
west and sold their lands to the Government and let 
the settler occupy it.” 

“You didn’t enjoy the Major’s story very well, did 
you ?” 

“Yes, I was very much interested. He is a good 
narrator, and has rendered a very good account of his 
experience.” 

“What do you think of his noble act in saving the 
life of the young lady?” 

“Why, indeed, that to me was the most interesting 
part of all he related, but he is not telling it all. 
There is something he is keeping back. The sequel 
to this bit of romance your Major is very adroitly 
concealing.” 

“You suspicion, my daughter, that this adventure 
ripened into courtship and marriage, do you?” 

“Well, I don’t only suspect it, but I believe it. How 
could it be otherwise, unless, perchance, the interven- 
ing hand of death should prevent. However, it makes 
no difference to me personally, for the Major is noth- 
ing to me, and I can see no good reason why I should 
take such a decided interest in his romance, and yet 
I cannot help desiring to know how it terminated. It 
was certainly romantic ! I would not blame the 
young lady in the least for loving her heroic friend, 
and, of course, it would be but natural for the Major 
to fall in love with the little maiden and marry her, 
but — oh, well, it makes no difference to me !” 

“I suspect, my daughter, that you are just a little 

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3ttl)ur %>t. Clafr 


more interested in the Major than you are in the girl? 
I can’t blame you, if you are. It rather meets my 
approval, for I am very much pleased with the young 
man. My, but he is fine-looking and such a brave 
soldier !” 

"‘Yes, I have noted that fact from the first time you 
met him, father, but you are mindful of one thing, 
and that is, your Major can never be anything more 
to me than a very dear friend, although his heroic 
deeds, in saving the life of the young lady, has so in- 
creased my appreciation of his better qualities that I 
could almost wish that I had been the one with the 
wounded foot, and if I were only she, it would be a 
different matter, but I am not, and there is the end to 
it. However, it amuses me very much to see how 
adroitly the Major ingratiates himself into the confi- 
dence and admiration of my dear old papa, intending 
perhaps, through this medium to reach the affections 
of his daughter. Very clever, indeed, my noble and 
-venerable father! You and the Major are playing 
your hands well for the cards you are holding, but 
you have no trumps.” 

“Why, my daughter ! Certainly you must appreciate 
my motive in this whole affair. I have nothing in 
mind except the very best interest and welfare of the 
only one in the world upon whom I can bestow a 
single affection. The young man has satisfied me of 
his sterling worth and fixed integrity. One who has 
so nobly deported himself upon the field of battle as 
he has done, saving the life of a poor helpless girl, 
when all others deserted her, even at the great peril 
of losing his own life, is of such a grand and noble 
character, that I have no hesitancy in recommending 
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flPf ffl)lD jfott Ecconetg 

his affections to the candid consideration of my own 
daughter. And I had hoped that you would be able 
to see the matter as I do. I admit, that the young 
man has a hold on my very best wishes, and perhaps 
unthoughtedly we have been playing our cards to- 
gether, but so far neither he nor I have been able to 
take a single trick, and it may be we are not holding 
trumps, at least we are not holding together.’’ 

'‘You and the Major are doing very nicely, and 
while your little by-play is interesting, your ma- 
neuvers are somewhat facetious, although well-in- 
tended. However, you must know that there can 
never be anything come out of it except acquaintance- 
ship, which, for your sake, I shall always hold at its 
fullest worth. If the Major was only Arthur St. 
Clair, I should be the happiest person in all the world, 
and do you know, papa, that sometimes I can see 
actions and looks that remind me of the dear boy of 
my childhood? There is something across his fore- 
head and eyes that reminds me of the one whom I 
have loved all my life, but of course I know it is only 
a fancy, a dream, brought on by my wish that the 
Major were only he. Until I shall know that Arthur 
St. Clair is dead, or has forsaken me, my affections 
will remain sealed with the promise I made to him in 
years of long ago. Oh, I have waited so long for his 
coming, but I have not doubted in the least that he 
will come again to me.” 

“That is all very well for you to talk that way, but 
you know if the Major was Arthur St. Clair, I would 
soon put an end to his visits, and if he persisted in 
coming, my Virginia blood would rise to a point of 

indignation and But what is the use to harbor 

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attftut ^t> Ctair 

the thought of such a suspicion. Major Arthur is a 
man, a gentleman brave and noble, but what is Arthur 
St. Clair? Nothing! What in the world could he do? 
What could be ever accomplish ? Nothing, and I hope 
you will forget him entirely, that you may never see 
him again, and if he ever comes around here and I get 
these old eyes on him, well, I don’t want to promise 
that I would not do something rash. I know if you 
would encourage the Major a little you would not re- 
gret it, and his acquaintance and companionship 
would help you greatly in banishing from your mind 
the thought of your girlish fancy. Would you but 
only try, it would be a source of much comfort to your 
dear old father. Suppose you just try a little to for- 
get the one and love the other and let us see the 
result, for I am so anxious that you forever forego 
your love for that Arthur St. Clair.” 

‘To please you, my dearest father, I shall abandon 
my own thoughts and pleasure, in a measure, and 
will try and yield to your inclination, and when your 
Major comes again, I shall endeavor to take a little 
more interest in him. And I promise you one thing, 
that I shall find out, at all hazards, what became of 
the little maiden he snatched from the jaws of death 
upon the field of battle.” 

“I assure you, my daughter, that you will find that 
the Major’s actions and deportment in reference to 
this bit of romance will meet your approval, when 
you are advised of what they were.” 

The old Virginian was so much exercised in the 
Major’s welfare, he could hardly wait until he should 
pay another visit, and resolved to himself, that the 
very next time he came, he would frame some excuse 
128 


flPf ffl)lo jfott Hecotictp 

for remaining out of the room and give the Major a 
better chance to press his suit. He felt that since 
his daughter -was going to be a little more interested 
in the Major, there would be some progress made in 
winning her away from the much hated Arthur St. 
Clair, and the old man was in a happy mood. 

A few evenings later he sat nodding in his large 
easy chair, when a clatter of the knocker aroused him 
from his nap, as a servant entered, escorting a gen- 
tleman and announcing: 

'‘Majah AhthahT 

Miss Virginia arose and went across the room and 
greeted the visitor cordially, and with just a little 
more interest than ever before, and with a friendly 
salutation of “Delighted to see you. Major, and how 
are you?” 

The old gentleman, with real Southern hospitality, 
manifested more than a passing interest. He noted 
the friendly greeting extended to the Major by his 
daughter, and his old heart was bubbling over with 
ecstasy. However, settling back into his good easy 
chair, he soon began nodding, whether real or feigned, 
it afforded a tangible excuse for retiring from the 
room, and rising, he advanced toward the Major and 
addressed him: 

“Beg pahdon, Majah Arthur, but I am constrained 
to ask you to forego my presence this evening, as I 
find that I am unable to keep awake, and by your per- 
mission, I shall retire.” 

“Certainly, Mr. Luwalling, your pardon is granted, 
while I regret very much to lose the pleasure of your 
company, I appreciate the fact, that to a person of 
your age, peaceful slumber is an essential and enjoy- 
129 


attj)ur Clair 


able necessity. I therefore reluctantly bid you good- 
night, and wish you quiet and refreshing rest.'’ 

Listening until the footsteps of the old gentleman 
died away, the Major quietly and gently slipped into 
the vacant chair just deserted, with a resolution to 
make his identity known to the young lady. He had 
kept the secret to himself as long as his heart could 
hold it, but how should he proceed? “How can I 
broach the subject? She does not suspicion me and 
for the first time we are alone. Would she, for her 
father's sake, drive me from the door, if I should 
tell her who I am? I wonder if she suspects me. 
Sometimes I think that she has recognized me and 
will not let on, but then, this could not be. She 
would say something about it, for she could not keep 
it. I wonder, too, if she still loves her Arthur boy? 
Perhaps another has won her or could win her af- 
fections. I shall try it. I shall make love to her, 
and when I learn the inclination of her heart, then I 
shall know if she has forgotten the one whom she 
loved in years gone by. I know she suspects the girl 
I saved in the retreat has played an important part in 
my life, and she will want to know all about it.” 
While these thoughts were running through his mind, 
everything was silent. Virginia had been watching 
the Major’s countenance in the glow of the soft mel- 
low light that went out from the burning faggots in 
the old-fashioned fireplace, and interrupted him: 

“A penny for your thoughts. Major!” 

“I hardly think you would be pleased with your 
bargain, for I was thinking of some matters in which 
you may have a very interesting part, and I am sure 
you would think them too cheaply bought, prizing 
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2D( 2DID jFort Kecoiierp 


things at their full worth, as I know you always do.” 

“Oh, that is very kind of you to entertain such an 
estimate of one whom you know but little, but be 
that as it may, I want to thank you. Major, for your 
very excellent narrative rendered of General St. 
Clair’s defeat. I shall never forget it. How the poor 
men and women must have suifered ; no one will ever 
know. Then there is poor old General St. Clair, how 
sad and sorrowful he must have been. There is 
something about that name that I like extremely well. 
No other name in all the world sounds so sweet to 
me.” 

“Why, Virginia, there is nothing in a name!” 

“That perhaps is true. Major Arthur, but there is 
something in that name to me more than I can ever 
tell, and I dare say, it is as near and dear to me as 
the name of the little lady that a very brave and heroic 
young man carried from the field of battle upon a 
black charger. What say you. Major?” 

“I don’t know about that! However, since you 
have mentioned the subject, I am sure that I did noth- 
ing more under the circumstances than a plain, sim- 
ple duty and no more for the little lady than I would 
have done for you, had you been that unfortunate per- 
son. As to the name, it has its fascination, its at- 
tachment, that clings to the heart like a sorcerer’s 
dream. And oft in my melancholy moods there comes 
to me the remembrance of that awful tragedy, and 
with it the pain and suffering of that little woman, 
who begged me so hard to leave her to the fate that 
seemed imminent and save myself. I have always 
been thankful that God gave me the courage to do my 
duty, and while it is true she and I escaped with our 

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lives from that awful struggle, my efforts accom- 
plished but little. We arrived safely at the fort before 
dark, and by that time she was suffering intensely 
from the wound. The woolens of her stockings had 
been drawn into the flesh and poisoned the blood. No 
medical aid was nigh, and those about her were will- 
ing to do what little they could, but they were helpless. 
I gathered some leaves and dry grass and made a place 
for her to lie down, there being no coverings in the 
fort, and in our flight we had thrown away every- 
thing of this kind. Making her as comfortable as I 
could under the circumstances, I was called at ten 
o’clock that night to fall in line to march with the 
troops to Fort Hamilton. Before going I went to 
where she was lying and bade her a last farewell. 
The tears came in her eyes and overflowed her 
cheeks. At her throat something seemed to stop her 
words, and as she hung on to my hand, I paused and 
kneeling down beside her, inquired her name, and 
there came the faint and scarcely audible word 
‘Mary.’ And as she gradually slackened the hold 
on my hand, I quietly slipped away and never again 
looked into her tender face. Some days later when 
we were joined at Fort Washington by those whom 
we had left at Fort Jefferson, I went among them 
looking for the little one and learned from the lips 
of a mother, that just outside the fort, on a little plat 
of ground, amid the deep-tangled wildwood, they 
heaped up the earth in a little mound, and beneath the 
clay they laid her down to sleep.” 

“Poor, dear girl! How I pity her! It was good 
and noble of you. Major Arthur, to save her from 
falling into the hands of the Indians, even though she 
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©f ©ID jFott lElecoDetp 


only lived but a few days, for you have the soul 
satisfaction of having performed a brave and courage- 
ous act. I regret that I was so rude to entertain a 
suspicion of this bit of romance, but I could not have 
been at all complacent until I had learned of its ter- 
mination. It is very touching and you have, no doubt, 
suffered much from the loss of your little friend. I 
know I should have loved her, had I only known her, 
and what a pretty name, too, ‘Mary,’ the mother of 
Jesus.” 

At this point Virginia could go no further. Some- 
thing came up in her throat, a small kerchief went up 
to her eyes and her face was moistened with her 
tears. While the Major could not look up, but gazed 
straight into the fire, and both remained silent for a 
long time, except now and then a low half-smothered 
sob came from behind the kerchief. Her head bent 
down and gradually nestled closer upon the broad, 
manly shoulders of the Major, who seemed unmind- 
ful of her presence. And thus as she gently reposed, 
there came to her a sweet soothing sleep, and her 
kindly soul wandered away in her dreams, and her 
thoughts winged their flight to the little grave in the 
wildwood. She wandered along the banks of the Mi- 
ami, and like Magdalene of old, the one whom she 
sought was not there. 

How long she dreamed and how long she reposed 
matters not. The Major, arousing himself from his 
meditation, awoke her from her slumber. Arraying 
himself in his great coat and hat, they together went 
in silence to the great hall door, and as it swung on 
its ponderous hinges, the old town clock in the tower 
of Independence Hall tolled off the hours of twelve. 

133 


3tt6ur S»t. Clait 


Half regretting, half opposing, she gently hung upon 
the arm of him whom she dare not love. Gently 
raising her small white hand to his lips, he silently 
moved away and out into the broad thoroughfare, 
where the shadows of peaceful homes spread their 
somber shade, the gallant Major was soon lost in sable 
night’s deepening shadows. 

Virginia watched the figure, as farther down the 
street it moved, and as it became less distinct, she 
wondered why it was that she could not help loving 
this new-found friend. As the receding form disap- 
peared from her sight, she sighed from the bottom of 
her heart, “Oh, dear, dear, if he were only my Arthur 
St. Clair, what would I give! I wish he would not 
come any more, and yet I hope that he will not always 
stay away, for there is something about him that re- 
minds me of my Arthur and that is the part with 
which I am in love.” 


CHAPTER XIV 

TRUE HEARTS NEVER CHANGE 

The next morning at the breakfast table Virginia 
discovered her aged parent examining her counte- 
nance more closely than usual. In fact, his scrutiny 
was so watchful, that she was satisfied her face cor- 
rectly reflected her feelings, and was not surprised 
that her father should notice something unusual. She 
was not very loquacious, but on the contrary, was 
slightly morose and taciturn, resolving that she would 

134 


DIO Jfott EecoDetg 

not be drawn into a conversation with her father, if 
she could avoid it, for she well knew that last night’s 
visitor would be the subject. 

She had struggled all through the night and morn- 
ing hour to banish from her mind the thought, the 
form, the likeness of her new-found friend, but try 
ever so hard, she could not. She dearly loved Arthur 
St. Clair, the boy of her youth, and did not care for 
anyone else, and yet in spite of herself, her new ac- 
quaintance was constantly coming in her mind and 
thoughts. The little experiences of her youth, the lit- 
tle episodes, and all her girlish fancies were one by 
one thought over and arranged in order, and between 
them all came the likeness, the character and heroic 
form of the Major. In spite of her best effort, she 
found herself falling in love with him. As she sat 
there trying to eat, she resolved to end it all. That 
she would quietly, politely and positively inform her 
new friend that her heart belonged to another, and 
that their acquaintance must not cross the threshold 
of friendship, and if he persists in knowing my rea- 
sons, I shall tell him. This determination having 
been reached, her face became normal, and the father 
noting the change in her countenance, thought it a 
good time to find out results of the visit. 

“You found the Major very good company, did you 
not, my daughter?” 

“Yes, father, I must confess that I was entertained, 
but disappointed.” 

“Then you were not successful in learning the se- 
quel to the lady and black charger, were you?” 

“Yes, papa, I found out all about that bit of ro- 
mance.” 


135 


3rtJ)Ut @)t. Clait 


“How then could you have been entertained and 
disappointed at the same time?” 

“That is the point. His account of the romance 
was entertaining, very touching and a sad ending. It 
was the end that disappointed me, for I had hoped 
that there was something in the beginning that would 
terminate with the casting of the net of love and the 
Major would be found in its meshes, but imagine my 
surprise, when I learned that the beginning was the 
ending. Scarcely had the quickened pulse responded 
to love’s emotional throb, than the hand that rescued 
pushed aside the thick grown heather, and I beheld 
amid the wildwood, on the banks of the Miami, a 
newly made grave. 

“If it had been as I suspicioned, then I should have 
had a tangible excuse for turning a dull ear to the 
solicitations of my father, and I should also find no 
difficulty in controlling my own feelings. In spite of 
myself, however, I find that I am falling in love with 
the Major, against my own will and desire. 

“Father dear, do you know that it is cruel indeed 
to ask me to encourage your friend any longer?” 

“Oh, you will soon learn to love him!” 

“That is the whole trouble. I am learning to love 
him in spite of all that I can think and do. I have 
searched for every little criticism and made myself a 
special committee on faults, and the more I examine, 
the more he reminds me of Arthur St. Clair, and the 
stronger grows the infatuation.” 

“It will work out all right, my daughter, if you will 
only have patience. The world was not made in a 
day.” 

“That is true, but Csesar crossed the Rubicon in a 

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' a)( ©ID jFott KecoDetp 


very few minutes, and when the Major comes again, 
it will not take me long to destroy the little world in 
which he has been living of late.” 

'‘I’ll wager that he will be equal to the emergency, 
and that you will not succeed in destroying the Ma- 
jor’s new-found world, as you imagine. It is my 
hope that failure will be written all over your efforts.” 

And there the matter dropped for the present, both 
parties being willing to withdraw from the contest. 

All through the same long hours of the night, an- 
other soul counted the strokes of the old town clock, 
and tossed upon trouble’s uncomfortable couch. Ma- 
jor Arthur had returned from his nocturnal visit de- 
jected and foiled. He had gone with a resolution 
but his resolve was unexecuted, and he thought, “I 
ought to have told her last night who I was or pushed 
my offer of love persistently, and had the matter over 
with, but she seemed so affected by that little story 
of romance, that I could not find the courage. I am 
going to make love to her, and when I win her af- 
fections, I shall reveal my identity. Of course, she 
will insist to the very last that she knew me all the 
time, and was only fooling, or that she was not let- 
ting on for fear her father would find me out. But 
I am satisfied she has not the least suspicion of who 
I am, but when she gets to talking to me about how 
much I resemble her Arthur boy, it is all that I can do 
to remain quiet, and if there is much more of that 
kind of talk, I am afraid there will be a surprise in 
store for James Luwalling, Esquire. 

“I think perhaps, for fear he may get onto some- 
thing around here, I better fix matters up a little, as a 
committee of inquisition might be appointed. I can 

137 


gttftut Clait 

arrange everything and will attend to it at once. But 
I don’t know how I am going to manage that old Vir- 
ginian. When he finds me out, as he certainly will, 
there will be such a mixture of disappointment and 
rage, and mostly the latter ingredient, that he will 
want to kill me on sight. But I can cross that bridge 
when I get to it and have trouble enough on hand 
without borrowing any. 

“I suspect she wondered last night why I looked so 
straight into the fire. Gosh ! If I had ever looked 
around, she would have recognized me sure, and old 
Jim Luwalling would have come and shown me the 
door. Well, it didn’t turn out that way, but my 
thoughts may be the forerunner of what shall happen 
in the near future. 

“Let’s see, this is Thursday — one, two, three, four — 
Sunday’s four. Four more long, tedious, terrible, 
trying, vexatious days, and then — yes, then — well, I 
shall call and stay until the battle is over.” With this 
resolution formed. Major Arthur, with a lighter heart 
than usual turned his attention to the duties that con- 
fronted him, but his mind was on Virginia and her 
father. 

Sunday came, without sunshine or shadow, but with 
a cold, drizzling rain, which froze as it fell. A little 
note had been slipped into the mail that announced 
to the Luwalling household, the intended visit, but 
when it came time to set out, Arthur hesitated and 
wished he had it back, but concluding that an ill- 
timed battle won is better than a well-timed battle 
lost, he buttoned up his coat to the very top and 
pushed forth through the sleet and rain to conquer. 

His arrival was anticipated and a reception given 

138 


Df ©ID JFort KccoDetg 


in the usual courteous and cordial manner, except 
Virginia seemed a little reserved and participated in 
the conversation only in such a degree as ladylike de- 
meanor would approve. 

The rain continued to fall and beat a tattoo against 
the window panes, while darkness came quickly on. 
Dinner over, and coming out into the great old-fash- 
ioned drawing-room, Arthur noticed that the old gen- 
tleman did not accompany Virginia and himself. He 
also observed, as he passed through, the heavy dam- 
ask curtains, their folds closed together, shutting out 
the view from the other apartments. It now dawned 
upon him that some one had a design. Upon the 
marble mantlepiece burned a tallow candle, which was 
making a feeble effort to light up the room, and 
would sometimes go almost out, then burn up brightly 
with renewed energy, and it reminded him much of 
himself. Before the blazing fire and at a comfortable 
distance away, sat a fine old-fashioned leather divan, 
with just room enough for two, and this suggested a 
design, but a happy one. Sitting down in it, he found 
it decidedly appropriate, and when Virginia came, 
after arranging some matters about the window, and 
sat down by his side, sharing part of the prearranged 
seat, it seemed more comfortable than ever. As she 
took her seat beside him, and turned about facing 
him, he thought, “Now is the time, the battle is on, and 
if I am to be sacrificed, I must know it.’' 

“I beg pardon, Miss Virginia, for mentioning the 
subject, but do you know, that ever since that Christ- 
mas eve ball I have had but little else on my mind 
than the little lady who waltzed with me so grace- 
fully and made me think that I was in the land of 

139 


artftut §)t. Clait 


fairies. Since that happy hour I have been permitted 
to bask in the sunshine of her smiles as only a friend, 
and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate such con- 
sideration. As you have learned from my own lips 
that I am only a plain, unlettered soldier, tutored in 
the curriculum of military tactics and have not the 
deep-toned voice with which to woo and win. My 
victories have been attained by the sword and not by 
blandishments, that deadly instrument of the wordy 
sycophant. In love-making I am ^as skilless as the 
unpractised youth, and as weak as a woman’s tear.’ 

“But if I could only unfold to you the story of my 
love, certainly you would have pity on me and not 
drive me from you. I have resolved this night to as- 
certain my fate. I can wait no longer, I must have 
your answer.” 

“Major Arthur, you have touched my affections, 
and I sincerely appreciate your noble and manly pur- 
pose. Your company has been immeasurably enjoyed, 
and I hope to be always counted among the list of 
those whom you regard as the dearest and best 
friends. Your noble deeds upon the battlefield, the 
kindness you manifested toward one of my own sex, 
has won for you the highest possible estimate that 
can be awarded for honor and bravery. My dear old 
father, whom I love with all my heart, has such a 
high regard for you that he thinks there is none like 
the Major, and for his sake, I am almost persuaded to 
yield to his solicitations, but I cannot. 

“My admiration for you. Major Arthur, as a noble, 
honorable, upright soldier, gentleman and friend, is 
more than I can possibly tell you, but at the door of 
friendship our associations must stop. I cannot per- 
140 


2Df ©ID jFort IRecoDetp 


mit you to enter the precincts of my affections. Al- 
though, when I heard you relate your kindness to the 
little wounded girl, it made me almost wish that I 
were she. I had the struggle of my life to close the 
doors of my heart against you, but the die is cast, 
and destiny has shaped the end.'' 

^‘May I not live in hope? Is there not some way 
by which you can be induced to reconsider your final 
determination? I was led to believe that you were 
going to decide in my favor, but you have blasted 
every hope. I must know why, the cause, the reason, 
the obstacle, the barrier, and knowing them, per- 
chance I may by some ^oblivious antidote’ over- 
come the malady of your disapproval.” 

'‘The fault is not yours, but my own. I have not 
treasured against you a single criticism, and find noth- 
ing that calls for disapproval. It is not within your 
power to remove the barrier between us, as you shall 
know, when I have told you, and as you desire to 
know the truth, it is but proper that I should let you 
into the folds of my heart, that you may read what is 
written there. 

"You recall in one of our conversations I told you 
of the name of Arthur St. Clair? Well, there is some- 
thing in that name for me. When but a child of eight 
or nine, in our old Virginia home, I learned to love 
that boy, whom I have known all my life, and he like- 
wise loved me. Our affections though young, were 
sealed with the heart's purest devotion. Family trou- 
bles arose and we were separated. The most bitter 
hatred was entertained by the oldest members of the 
family. Arthur’s father lost his life while he and my 
father were crossing a stream in the night-time, and 
141 


artftut Claic 

my father was arrested and tried for his murder, but 
was acquitted. My father held a mortgage on all of 
the St. Clair property, which he foreclosed after 
Arthur’s father was gone and took their lands away 
from them. Soon they went away to another state, 
and the gossip being so strong against our family, we, 
too, were compelled to leave, and not knowing what 
had become of Arthur and his mother, we chanced to 
move to the same neighborhood. My father was so 
bitter against Mrs. St. Clair and her son Arthur, and 
she so vindictive against my father and myself, that 
we were not permitted to see each other, except only 
at public gatherings, where we could have a word. 
My dear old father is so bitter against him that he 
would kill him if he should see him speaking to me, 
but the more he treasures his hatred, the stronger 
grows the tie of love. I have never loved any one but 
that dear boy, and I never shall, until I know he has 
proven false or is dead. If you were only he. Major 
Arthur, how I could worship at your feet ! And 
how much you resemble him ! Sometimes I can’t 
hardly convince myself that you are any other per- 
son than he!” 

“When did you hear from him?” 

“Not for eight years, not since we came to this 
city to live.” 

“Where is his mother?” 

“Why, she lives up near where we used to live.” 

“Is Arthur there with her?” 

“No, I think not. He went away some years ago, 
and I have no trace of him.” 

“Do you think he will ever find you?” 

“Yes, something tells me that he will come to me.” 

142 


Df DID JFott Hecotoetg 

“But your father will not permit him to speak to 
you, if he knew it?’’ 

“Well, that is no doubt true, but he will have to be 
managed some way. When my dear Arthur boy 
comes to me again, we will soon be out of reach of 
the wrath of my dear papa. And if you were only 
he, Major, we’d fly while sleep kisses down the eye- 
lids of him who has watched over me so long; but 
then you’re not, but I wish you were.” 

“What did you say was his name?” 

“Why, Arthur St. Clair.” 

“And you do not know what became of him?” 

“No, I am not sure.” 

“Did you ever think he might have been in the 
battle with the Indians?” 

“Oh ! I hardly think so. I am sure he was not in- 
clined to military adventures.” 

“You say, you think he resembles me?” 

“Yes, very much.” 

“Good looking?” 

“Yes, Major, handsome.” 

“Then I can not understand wherein you observe 
the lines of resemblance.” 

“Oh! That’s easy.” 

“Were there any marks of identification?” 

“None that I recall.” 

“Well, from what you have told me, I believe I 
know him.” 

“Oh, do you?” 

“Yes, I believe I do.” 

“Oh! Tell me about him, please do?” 

“Well, there was a very handsome young man, 
by the name of Arthur, with the army at General 

143 


attfiur %it. Clair 


St. Clair’s defeat, and took part in the battle, and I 
shall not be at all surprised, if he is no other than 
your own dear friend.” 

“Did you see him during the battle?” 

“Yes, several times.” 

“Was he brave?” 

“Brave as a lion and dared everything.” 

“Did he perform any heroic deeds?” 

“Yes, many worthy of emulation. In fact, to save 
others was his soul purpose, with little or no thought 
of his own safety.” 

“Was he wounded?” 

“In no way injured.” 

“And he is still living, is he?” 

“Live and well.” 

“Have you seen him lately?” 

“Yes, not long since.” 

“Have you ever talked with him?” 

“Many times.” 

“Did he ever speak of me?” 

“He spoke of a lady fair, whom he said he loved 
better than his own life.” 

“Then he is in love, is he?” 

“Yes, to the point of distraction.” 

“Oh ! I wonder if it is really my own dear Arthur 
boy. And he is in love? How could he, when he 
promised to be true to me forever. Man, man, thou 
unfaithful creature; as variable as the wind, and as 
changeable as the pale face moon. How I have wait- 
ed all these years for him, but to learn at last, that he 
has forsaken me and loves another. Did you ever talk 
with him about his lady love, and did he ever give you 
a description of her?” 


144 


SDf ©10 jFott laecooetp 


“Yes, quite often. It is a theme uppermost in his 
mind, and he is always doting upon her; drawing 
pen pictures of her, and from his viewpoint, she is 
most wonderfully beautiful ; and her life so pure, that 
it would improve the whiteness of the winter’s snow, 
and add a sparkle to the mountain brook; and is so 
complexioned that the blush of her cheeks would 
give a luster to the new blown rose ; so ruddy are her 
lips, that the red of the ripening cherry seems to pale 
beside them; so bewitching are her eyes ‘like gems 
of the purest waters’ they radiate with entrancing 
love; a mouth with ivory accompaniment, as though 
shaped by the hand of perfection; in form, such as 
Phidias could not mould, if Paris with his iron min- 
ions did command; a disposition so in harmony with 
gentle nature, that in reposing attitude, you would 
imagine she had naught else to do, save to repose 
upon the bosom of the lily, bathe her face in the dew 
of the flower, and gormandize upon the warpings of 
her floral couch.” 

“What a wonderful person his lady love must be. 
I cannot really blame him for falling in love with her, 
for I suspect he has concluded that I have long since 
forgotten him. But have you ever met his lady friend, 
whom you have just described?” 

“Yes, many times.” 

“Do you think that she is such a wonderful per- 
son?” 

“I am quite sure the picture is not overdrawn.” 

“Why do you not make love to her yourself ?” 

“I have tried to several times, but she informed me 
she was in love.” 


145 


attftuc Clait 

"‘And did she tell you that she was in love with my 
Arthur?” 

“Indeed, she told me that she loved him, and that 
there was no other so dear to her.” 

“Then you were unsuccessful in your love affairs 

“Quite.” 

“Too bad, Major! You and I have been very un- 
fortunate.” 

“Decidedly so.” 

“But were you in love more than once?” 

“Yes, twice, but it was all the same person.” 

“Then you had a quarrel and afterwards made it 

lip ?” 

“No, not quite that way.” 

“Oh, do tell me. Major, something about your love 
affairs; your joys and disappointments, won’t you? 
For in them I may find hope and consolation, as 
‘misery loves company.’ ” 

“There is too much disappointment in my love- 
making to be interesting for I, too, like yourself, 
learned to love at a tender age, but feuds and dissen- 
sions formed a barrier between, separating me from 
the dear girl of my childhood. Her father had a 
dislike for my people and held his grievance against 
me. As I grew to manhood, seeing there was no 
chance of my realizing my fondest hope, I went away 
to the army, caring little or nothing for my life. 
But absence makes the heart grow fonder, and in the 
flight of years, instead of forgetting her, I love her 
still the more, and have regretted many times that I 
went into the world, losing all trace of her for a very 
long time.” 

“And you have loved her dearly all these years?” 

146 



“.Amd you have loved her dearly all these years?’*' 


^Arthur St. Clair.) — P. 146. 






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“Yes, and shall love her so long as I live.” 

“Have you never met her since?” 

“Yes, to learn from her lips, that she was in love.” 

“Poor dear boy, I am so sorry for you. I cannot 
help sympathizing with you, for your experience is 
much like my own. We have certainly been quite 
unfortunate, and it is strange and passing strange, 
we have been thrown into each other’s company. But 
do you think. Major, you could learn to forget her?” 

“I fear not.” 

“Then how is it that you claim to love me ?” 

“Your name is the same as hers.” 

“Does she resemble me?” 

“Yes, very much — an exact likeness.” 

“Then you have fallen in love with me, in spite 
of your love for her, all because our names are the 
same, and you imagine you could detect some resem- 
blance ?” 

“I have fallen in love with you, in spite of feuds and 
quarrels; fallen in love with you because you are the 
dearest person in the world; fallen in love with you 
because your name is Virginia; fallen in love with 
you because you look and act like the one I loved 
when a boy; fallen in love with you because you are 
Virginia Luwalling, that has loved Arthur St. Clair 
all her life, and whose love for you in all the long 
years has never grown cold with the flight of time, 
and cannot now be told in words or song, but with this 
candle across the gulch of feuds, you see a circle I 
have made, for my love for you is without an end.” 

“Oh, my dear Arthur boy ! Oh ! Dear, dear, how 
could you! How could you!” 

Folding her gently to his bosom, Arthur pressed 

147 


actfiur Sit. Clatr 


her to his throbbing heart, the limp and fainting form 
of the dearest person in all the world to him. Silently 
she lay within the embrace of his strong arms, her 
heart beating faintly, her breath slow and measured, 
he sealed down her eyelids with a thousand fervent 
kisses. Two loving hearts beat as one; two souls 
united, until the trumpet of eternity shall wake them 
from the dead. 


CHAPTER XV 

COMPLICATIONS 

The next morning the old-fashioned residence, oc- 
cupied by James Luwalling, Esquire, echoed from 
basement to garret, with merry songs and laughter. 
And those who were passing, would note as they 
paused for a moment. Listen to that laugh ! It is the 
soul of levity. Listen to that song ! It is the echo of 
the heart of love. That must be the happiest person in 
the world ! Mr. Luwalling was actually uneasy about 
his daughter. Never before had he ever seen her so 
joyous and gay. Her voice has more music in it 
than it has had in her whole life. She sings the old 
plantation melodies, and I have not heard her voice 
tuned for years. I wonder what has happened. Cer- 
tainly I can almost guess it — the Major has won an- 
other battle. I must see her at once and learn the 
secret. 

Going through the rooms looking for her, he was 
suddenly surprised, when out from behind the folds 
of the heavy door curtains, ran two white arms and 
148 


2Df DID jFott KecoDetp 


before he knew it some one was about his neck, and a 
merry laughter in his ears, and a kiss upon his cheek. 

“Oh! Dear old father. There! There! Now 
what do you say?’^ 

“Hurrah for the Major ! I knew he would win V* 

“What do you mean, papa?” 

“Well, I mean the Major has won another battle. 
I donT know how he did it, but my little lady has 
surrendered. I know it without your telling me, and 
it makes me feel young again. Oh ! I could do a Vir- 
ginia reel for joy!” 

And the old gentleman went skipping and waltzing 
through the rooms and hallways like a school boy, 
soon to return to find out the particulars. 

“Virginia, you have not told me how it all hap- 
pened ?” 

“Well, papa, what is the use of telling you, it was 
all your fault!” 

“Good, and you have given up Arthur St. Qair, 
haven’t you?” 

“Well, papa, I simply couldn’t keep from falling in 
love with your Major. He is just the dearest person 
in the world, and I just tried every way to seal my 
heart against him, but I could not.” 

“Good! Good! I’ll let the St. Clairs know they 
can’t run me, and they can’t have my daughter 
either. 

“Say, Virginia, when is he coming again?” 

“Why, father, do you think he is coming back to- 
night ?” 

“Well, I don’t know, but it is my guess that he 
will not remain away long.” 

The jolly old man, with a heart simply bubbling 
149 


3tt6ut Clair 


over with joy, went to his room where he kept his 
private papers, and busied himself, looking over 
deeds, notes, bonds and mortgages. He was in such 
good temper, and so full of notions as to what he 
would do for Virginia and Major, that he icould not 
settle on anything for sure. He went over the list of 
his properties, one by one, and wondered, as he did 
so, which one would be most pleasing to his daugh- 
ter, whom he now loved better than ever. He mused 
to himself, that he would like to do something that 
would be a great and agreeable surprise to her. Let 
me see, she has always wanted to go to Europe, and 
that is one thing that must be provided at once. 
Then when they come back they will have to live 
somewhere, and let me see. She always liked the 
old plantation home where Major St. Clair lived, 
when he and I were neighbors, and I wonder if she 
would like to have it now, since she has forgotten 
him. It might bring back recollections that would 
make the heart sad. Then, too, it is in poor condi- 
tion for occupancy, being in the hands of a tenant for 
several years ; it can hardly be suitable. I should like 
to have the buildings restored and the house and fur- 
nishings all just like they were when she was a little 
girl, and someway, I feel like I could enjoy myself 
there with them. Pen and ink are here. I shall ad- 
dress a letter to my agent down there and learn con- 
ditions and get estimates on the work of repairing and 
restoring the premises, and in the meantime, I shall 
manage some way to find out her desires. 

But what is the first thing I should do? Oh, I 
see! Money, yes! Why, to be sure, she will want 
to do some shopping, and that will take money. Now" 

150 


ffl)f flPIti jFort Eecolictg 

how much will she want? One hundred dollars! 
Well, that is a large sum of money, but it looks 
small, don’t it? Wonder if I could make it five hun- 
dred ; that would not be more than she will want, but 
it does look like throwing money away, don’t it? Well, 
she gave up Arthur St. Clair to please me, and that 
is worth something. Yes, it is worth five hundred 
more, and cheap enough. It has done my old soul 
that much good already. Here is a certificate or note 
to my order for one thousand dollars. Now, my 
name across it — there you are Mrs. St. Clair; your 
cake is dough all the way through 1 

Taking the note which he had indorsed, he car- 
ried it to Virginia’s room, and laying it upon her 
dressing table, turned around slowly and went out. 
Going from room to room, he could not find her. He 
listened that he might hear her voice, but could not. 
From the servants he learned that she had gone up 
to the city without bidding him good-by. How 
lonely it seemed without her, and then he mused to 
himself she will soon return again. Poor, dear girl, 
what would I do without her? Life would not be 
worth the living, if she were not here where I could 
hear her voice and see her smiling face. How little 
do we know the worth of our affections until they are 
gone from us. Thus the old gentleman talked and 
reflected to himself the best he could, while the 
morning wore off slowly, when after several hours 
his daughter returned, bringing several packages 
from the city. 

‘‘You have been gone a long time, daughter, so it 
seems to me, but now that you are returned, I shall 

151 


art&ut Claic 

overlook the delay. What kept you so, did anything 
happen ?” 

“Oh ! Nothing special or serious, I guess. The 
Major and I chanced to meet, and we were just look- 
ing around a bit. You didn’t miss me, did you?” 

“Yes, I missed you and I was lonely.” 

“Why, papa, what will you do when I am gone?” 

“Well, I shall go with you.” 

“Yes, certainly you shall. Wherever the Major 
and I go, there shall you be also, for we could not 
get along without you. But what is this I find here 
on my dressing-table? Some of your papers, papa? 
How could it have gotten here ? Some one has laid it 
there — was it you, father?” 

“Yes, daughter, I thought you would need a little 
shopping money and it was worth that much to me 
to see how nicely you and I put a finish on the St. 
Clairs.” 

“Well, papa, the Major helped, didn’t he? You 
are not going to forget him, are you?” 

“No, I shall not forget him, for I am under lasting 
obligations to him for helping me to get the best of 
one of my old enemies, and he shall have his re- 
ward.” 

“You would like this home here, wouldn’t you, Vir- 
ginia ?” 

“No, I would not. There is only one place in the 
world for me, and that is the old home of my dear 
Arthur — Saint — Major. Oh, I mean the old St. Qair 
plantation. You know that I was in love with that 
place and to me it is the dearest place in the world.” 

“There is a little too much St. Clair around there 
to suit me and ” 


152 


SDf 2DID jFott Eecoijctp 


“Why, here is a letter addressed to your agent 
down in Virginia !’" 

“Yes, I was writing him about some things, and if 
I can find a buyer for that property, I guess I shall 
sell it. I can’t bear the idea of owning anything that 
has the name of St. Clair stamped upon it, and it 
does not yield me very good rent any more; the 
buildings are going down and everything out of re- 
pair.” 

“I shall be greatly disappointed, papa, if you should 
sell it, for you know it was my dear boy’s — or I 
mean that it was always a dear place to me in child- 
hood, and I am still attached to it so much. But you 
may know what is best. 

“Excuse me, father. The Major will have a cup of 
tea with us this evening and I must direct the servants 
about the evening meal.” 

“You are excusable, my daughter.” 

Away went Virginia, singing like a lark, while the 
old man was troubled some. He could not quite 
understand it all. Daughter seems excited or some- 
thing — “Arthur — Saint — Major and her dear boy’s” 
something, but she did not finish it and seemed 
flustrated. Oh, well, she’s just been having so much 
on her mind, and of course it would be only natural 
that the impressions of a lifetime cannot be removed 
in a day and night, and I must expect her to speak 
and write the name of St. Clair for awhile, but time 
will work that all right. 

I guess I will open that letter and tell my man to 
go right to work fixing, repairing and putting the old 
plantation back just like it was when she was a girl, 
and to push the work as fast as possible. 

153 


artftur Clair 


After awhile the Major- came, and the old colored 
servant announced his arrival in his usual darkey 
style, and with a face smiling all over with satisfac- 
tion, for he was a favorite — the gold braid seemed 
to catch his eye. 

Tea was announced, and after taking their places, 
the old gentleman called a servant for something 
overlooked. 

‘‘Here, Rastus!’^ 

“Yes, sah!’^ 

“Go down in the cellar and bring a bottle of my 
best wine.” 

“Yes, sah!” 

The old darkey returned in a few minutes with a 
tray, bottle and glasses. 

“Heah am de old Madeah, massa, suah nulf.” 

And pouring the glasses full, the wine beaded and 
sparkled around the edge as the old gentleman lifted 
the beverage to his lips, saying as he did so: 

“Here’s to your health. Major!” 

While Virginia and the Major clashed their glasses 
together, placing them to their lips, and set them 
down with the contents untouched, each raising a 
glass of clear water until they met. Then lifting them 
up toward the elder, the Major said: 

“Here is the health, joy, comfort and happiness of 
the protector, guardian and father of the purest and 
loveliest lady in the land,” and Virginia said : 

“We drink to your health in water, but not in wine. 
The wine is stronger than the water, but our love for 
you, my dear father, is stronger than the wine. And 
long after the taste has lost its flavor, our affections 
will have grown stronger.” 

154 


Df 2DID jFott Kecotietp 


“I see my daughter, and I appreciate your love 
and affection, although taken in water instead of 
wine.’" 

That night was occupied in planning and reviewing 
the events of their past lives; the void of eight long 
years had to be gone over, interspersed with cooing, 
embracing and protestations of how they had loved, 
hoped, waited, watched, despaired, almost gave up, 
then encouraged, and at last found each other. They 
had waited so long, and now that their greatest ex- 
pectation was being enjoyed, it was more than either 
could fully realize that it was an actual reality. 

Miss Virginia, half chiding, half complaining to 
Arthur for his adroitness in the method employed in 
trying to make love to her, while pretending to be 
another, was amusing and interesting to him, and 
they both for the time being lost sight of the fact, that 
the barrier so long existing between them, was there 
the same as ever. In their joy and happiness the 
elder gentleman had not been considered as a factor 
to be reckoned in their future welfare, and when they 
got to the point of framing a plan, the father loomed 
up before them like a miasma of horror, '‘the dwarfish 
shadow to a giant spread.” 

“My dear Arthur, what shall we do? Father is so 
bitter against you, if he only knew, he would want to 
kill you on sight, and perhaps me too, for lending a 
hand in this deception. Oh, dear, dear, I see the end 
of it all.” 

“There, now don’t carry on that way. My dear 
girl, we can settle this whole affair all right. I have 
such regard for your father that I would not distress 
him for all the world, and I have a respect for my- 

155 


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self that I do not want to get killed, and in order to 
save your dear old father that trouble, I shall go 
away at once, where he will never see me again and 
wait until he has shuffled off this mortal coil.” 

As he was making his little speech, he moved across 
the room, and was about to enter the hallway, where 
his coat and hat were hanging upon the hall-tree, 
when two arms were thrown about his neck, and 
clasped like hoops of steel. Virginia had intercepted 
his movements, and now it was her time to talk. 

“You are not going unless I go along. If one of 
us goes away, there will be two going the same road 
at the same time. Come, sit down, Arthur, my boy. 
You can’t leave this house until we have formulated 
and matured a plan that will outgeneral my dear old 
papa; so sit down, father hasn’t killed you.” 

“Well, I guess there is no need of becoming 

alarmed, he hasn’t recognized me yet Sist ! Some 

one is in the hallway listening!” But a peep from 
behind the curtain into that thoroughfare proved that 
it was a false alarm. 

“That is true, Arthur, he has not recognized you as 
yet, but he will before we can get married, for he is 
planning a public wedding, and nothing short of that 
will suit him. See here what he left on my dressing- 
table. A note for a thousand dollars for shopping 
money.” 

“Why, the old dunce! What are we going to do 
with him, anyway?” queried the Major. “Well, I 
don’t know unless we elope.” 

“Fine! a capital idea, and then so romantic, too!” 
added Arthur, with the further suggestion. “We can 
take the five o’clock stage for New York, leaving here 

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£Df ®ID iFott Eecovietp 


before your father is awake, and by the time he learns 
of your flight, we will be a safe distance ahead and 
out of danger/’ 

'‘Oh, you dear boy ! I thought you could think of 
a plan, and then, too, so romantic, and it will save 
your life!” 

“Save my life?” 

“Yes, dear, father will not get a chance to kill you.” 

“Well, I can’t say as to that, but I suppose he will 
not hurt me, if he never gets to see me. But you’d 
better commence to get ready at once, for it is now 
past midnight, and we will want to be down there in 
good time to get ourselves booked for the trip.” 

“What shall I take with me ? Let’s see. The thou- 
sand dollar draft you had better leave on your dress- 
ing-table, for it is bad enough to steal a man’s daugh- 
ter without robbing him of his money.” 

“My dear boy, we may need the money.” 

“We may. That is so. But I do not want to have 
too much to answer for, and then besides, your father 
would kill both of us, if we took it, whereas, if we 
leave it, he may be satisfied by only killing me.” 

“Well, then, I shall take it and lay it where I found 
it, so when he is looking for me, he will find it, and 
he will think we have not gone very far.” 

“And he will only need to kill me?” 

“Oh, Arthur, papa has not killed you yet! Now, 
my dear boy, I shall have to take some clothes with 
me, and what can I pack them in? There is not a 
thing that I can get without arousing the whole 
house. Yes, in father’s room is a small leather port- 
manteau, Just the thing if I only had it out of there, 

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attftut Clait 

but how to get it? His room is very light, and if 
he should catch me, what excuse could I offer?” 

“Have courage, my dear girl, he will not awaken 
now. It is past the midnight hour when men sleep 
the soundest. Go quietly, dear, and don’t fall over 
anything and hurry!” 

Slipping away, Virginia was gone for some time, 
but came back as softly as she went. Her face buried 
in her kerchief. 

“Why, Virginia, what is the matter, anyw’ay?” 

“Arthur, dear, I cannot do it. I have not the heart 
to do it. My dear old father is sleeping soundly and 
as peacefully as a child; the silvery rays of the pale- 
face moon shone through the window and lighting 
up his dear old countenance, and the cluster of his 
whitened locks seemed to gather closer about his 
brow, and as he lay there, I thought how my absence 
would disturb that peaceful rest; how he would go 
through the rooms looking and calling for me. I can- 
not take my happiness, joy and pleasure at the dis- 
comfiture of my father.” 

“Oh, pshaw ! This is certainly getting down to a 
feather edge. Lady Macbeth could not kill old King 
Duncan, because she thought he resembled her father, 
but you can’t take a portmanteau from your father’s 
room lest you waken him.” 

“Now, Arthur, you are chiding me unkindly for 
something I cannot help, but we will have to abandon 
the elopement, for I never will do my father such 
unkindness.” 

“Just as I expected. Something always comes up to 
destroy my plans.” 

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ffl)f 2DID jFott EecoDetp 


'‘Now, Arthur, don't despair. Remember a faint 
heart never won a fair lady." 

“Well, I certainly have been trying to win one, and 
I am going to keep on trying until she is mine, all 
mine !" 

“Now you are the boy again that I have loved so 
long, and you must listen, for I have a plan and see 
what you think of it. 

“Father does not recognize you yet, and so far we 
are all right. Now I can talk him out of any public 
wedding, and especially anything elaborate, or having 
any cards out. In fact, we can hold him, I am sure, 
and we will insist on it taking place right away. We 
can fix up some excuse or other. You know that you 
might have to be called away, or there might be a 
war break out or something dreadful happen that 
would prevent, if it were delayed. And we must in- 
sist that it shall take place within a week, and I will 
tell him that you and I want to make all the arrange- 
ments — every little thing, so in that way he will have 
no occasion for asking any questions." 

“Oh, my dear heart ! You are certainly a generalis- 
simo in planning things, and I concur in all you have 
said." 

“Now listen, I shall commence on father to-morrow 
and argue the case like an English barrister, and you 
must come to-morrow evening and we will just be 
planning and talking like a Dutch hucksterer, and I’ll 
take back the note and that will give a good excuse 
to talk to him." 

“It is almost morning — you must be going, for the 
servants will sopn be stirring. Good-night — good 

159 


3ttl)ur Clair 


morning, you dear old Arthur boy, and blessing on 
you. Come for dinner to-morrow.’’ 

Picking her up in his arms, as though she were a 
child, Arthur pressed her to his heart, with an oscu- 
lation upon her cherry lips. 

^‘Good night, Virginia! Good night! May God 
watch over you until redolent morn with its burning 
orb shall herald the jocund day.” 

The next morning when Virginia’s father turned 
up his plate, he found the thousand dollar note he had 
given her the day before, and set to work at once to 
find out about it. 

'T do not need it, papa.” 

“You do not need it? Certainly you will! Has 
anything happened?” 

“Oh, no, nothing.” 

“Then why will you not need it ? We are going to 
have one of the grandest weddings that has been 
celebrated in this city for many a day, and I mean to 
make these old Quakers sit up and take notice.” 

“Do you think, papa, if you were going to have a 
wedding of your own, you would want somebody else 
to tell you how to celebrate it, or would you like to 
have it arranged to suit yourself?” 

“Well, my daughter, I hadn’t thought of that, but I 
suspect that I would like to manage it myself.” 

“That is the idea exactly. Now the Major and I 
have talked it all over and we have concluded that we 
should like very much to have charge of the whole 
affair — every little detail, every little matter, and 
arrange, manage and control the whole proposition.” 

“That is all very good, daughter, but what am I 
going to do while you are doing that? I just can’t 
i6o 


©( 2DID JFort EecoiJCtp 


keep still. I must have something to do, or my old 
heart w^ill burst for joy.” 

'‘Oh, you will have plenty to do. You know that 
you must have a fine broadcloth suit, shirts, ruffles, silk 
stockings, silver-buckle shoes and a new wig, queue 
and powder, and a lot of little things. I am sure you 
will be busy enough — enough for one dear old papa.” 

“Yes, and I’ll get the wedding cards printed, and 
let’s see — now to whom shall we send them? You 
had better make out a list for me, hadn’t you?” 

“Now, papa, let us not have any cards. They are 
not using them any more, and I don’t think they are 
very pretty, anyway.” 

“Well, I don’t know about these things, and it 
may be I would get them mixed up some. But we 
must make the announcement to the public. I’ll see 
the newspapers and have them print the notice, and 
I am going to send a paper to old Mrs. St. Clair, and 
she will show it to her smart boy, Arthur. Say, 
daughter, won’t that make things hum around there?' 
I’ll show ’em they can’t get ahead of me. You see^ 
Virginia, your father is a pretty wise old sawyer and 
there is no getting ahead of him when he sets out to 
do a thing. You will have to write out yours and his 
name so that I can have them put in the paper.” 

“Papa, you forget, don’t you ? I thought you 
were going to let the Major and I manage this wed- 
ding for ourselves? You see I shall have to talk it 
all over with him and settle on this thing and on 
that and so on. He is coming to-night and we will 
have a council, and if we cannot agree on matters, we 
shall call on you, and have my dear old papa installed 
i6i 


3ttt)ur Clait 

as chief adviser. Now, father, I’ll tell you what you 
can do.” 

^‘Well, I wish you would tell me something that I 
can do.” 

“You can get measured for a suit of clothes.” 

“That is so — I can do that. Where is my staff 
and I’ll be off in a minute.” 

Helping the old gentleman on with his coat and 
cap, with cane in hand, she accompanied him to the 
door and watched him until out with the throng, he 
was moving along the street toward the city. And 
as she stood there watching him, she mused to her- 
self : 

“Poor old papa ! What will he do when he finds out 
that his daughter is the chief mover in a plot to de- 
ceive him? I am afraid, when he does find it out, it 
will almost kill him; then I could never forgive my- 
self for the wrong done him, if anything serious 
should happen. But he is getting old, and we can 
manage him some way and keep him from finding out 
that he is being deceived. I must look around now 
and keep him busy. Oh, I have it ! I will make him 
go to the city for me every day and keep him doing 
odd jobs, and in that way he will have no chance to 
mix up in the arrangements for the wedding, except 
as I shall direct. 

“Oh, father, I know it is cruelly wrong to deceive 
you thus, but love cannot be outdone, even if it is 
blind.” 

All to herself, she was busy planning and arranging 
things, but the hardest proposition was her father. 
There is no way that we can keep him from the 
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wedding. He will simply have to be there and it 
can’t be avoided. 

I shall wait until the Major comes, and we will 
plan together, and make father help us, too. That 
will certainly be clever! Have him help weave the 
rope with which he is to be hanged. 

The Major came, as Virginia had expected, and 
many plans were talked over, pro and con, and the 
old gentleman had a sample of the broadcloth from 
which he had ordered his suit and was busy about 
telling of the many little purchases he had made that 
day and what else he intended getting. In this man- 
ner the evening wore along, and after awhile Virginia 
told the Major of her experience with her father and 
they had a good laugh over it, and yet they realized 
that he was getting hard to manage and no time could 
be lost. 

“Oh, Virginia, I have it now! Look here! An 
order from the War Department for Company ‘A,’ 
First Regiment, to be transferred to New York, and 
that is my company.” 

“Let me show that to father without delay. And 
how soon do you have to go?” 

“Oh, Virginia, I don’t have to go at all. I just had 
it fixed up for the occasion, but then your father will 
be none the wiser, and it won’t hurt him at all.” 

Virginia did not much like this thing of misrepre- 
senting matters to her father, but this was such a 
small thing, compared to the real fraud she was im- 
posing on him, that it seemed harmless. 

“Look here, father! This is awful! And I was 
afraid something would happen, and now it has 
turned out as I expected.” 

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attftur ^t. Clait 


“What! Company ‘A' called to New York City. 
Doubtless there must be some trouble brewing down 
there. Why, Virginia, this will interfere with our ar- 
rangements, won’t it? What shall we do? What 
does the Major think about it, anyway?” 

“Oh, papa, he is terribly distressed and worried 
about it! Come and see him and talk it over, won’t 
you ?” 

“Major Arthur, this is too bad, and I am much 
disappointed, but of course military rules are un- 
bending and must be obeyed. When do you think you 
will be transferred?” 

“Any time — perhaps within the next twenty-four 
liours, and may be sooner.” 

“Hear that, daughter ! What shall we do ?” 

“How long will you be away, Major?” 

“That I cannot answer, but perhaps a year, and it 
may be that I shall never return, for I am not ad- 
wised of the cause of the removal and where we shall 
be sent from that point.” 

“Well, well! This is a condition that must be met 
at once and shall we do it?” 

“I’ll tell you, papa, let us just have a nice, little, 
quiet affair of our own, here in our own home, with 
only a few invited guests. What do you say ?” 

“What does the Major say?” 

“I have been accustomed to yielding to the com- 
mands of my superiors that I have little choice left 
for myself, and any arrangements that you and Vir- 
ginia shall settle upon, will be so agreeable with me 
that I could not harbor a thought of dissension.” 

“When can you have the house in order and your 
164 


Df DID JFort Recoijetp 


garments made? But you will have no time for or- 
dering or making anything, will you?” 

‘‘Listen, papa, I can have everything in apple-pie 
order and all arrangements made by to-morrow even- 
ing at seven o’clock, if that will suit the Major?” 

“I am satisfied, if it meets your approval, Virginia, 
and I shall proceed at once to get ready, but, my 
dear girl, I am afraid it will hurry you too much?” 

“I shall be ready without haste or worry, my dear 
Major.” 

“It will hurry me some to get ready, daughter, by 
that time, but I guess I can, so with your permission, 
I shall set to work at once making my arrangements, 
for there are a good many things that I must look 
after.” 

“Certainly, father, you will be very busy. Good 
night!” 

After the old fellow had left the room Virginia 
looked toward the door through which he had just 
passed, and then turning to Arthur, said: 

“The dear, old, foolish fellow! He will be busier 
than a fish vendor at a dull market, trying to get 
himself ready for the occasion. But if he only knew 
what a surprise was in store for him. Fortunately, 
for us all, he don’t know, and may not know until his 
objections are shorn of all harm. 

“Come, now, my dear Arthur boy, and sit down 
here in this old leather divan in front of the fire, 
where we sat the other night when you surprised me 
so, and let us talk it all over again. No one is near 
and no one can hear, but you and I. Oh, how can I 
ever forgive you for the way you made me believe 
you were some one else?” 


attjjut Clai't 


Unmindful of the flight of time, two lives were 
lived over again; two hearts beat in rapport with 
sweet joy’s oblivious smile. All their difficulties 
seemed settled. The old barrier was torn away and 
the gate into the land of happiness stood ajar. 


CHAPTER XVI 

THINGS WILL HAPPEN 

While Virginia and her father were busy, the old 
gentleman was the busier of the two, and, of course, 
Arthur had some matters to look after. However, 
being a young man, and not having reached an age at 
which men become foolish, he took things pretty 
quietly. About the first thing he did the next morn- 
ing, was to send for his old friend, Timothy Hogan, 
for he was feeling so very happy that he could not 
keep it bottled up any longer, and who better than Tim 
could he find to tell it. Soon after, a tap on the door 
of his room told him his old friend was on hand. 

‘"Hello there, Tim, it is you, is it?” 

“No, it’s me, and did yees sind f’r me?” 

“Yes, Timothy, I sent for you because I am in 
trouble.” 

“Trouble, is it? Will Oi loik to sa the mon thet u’d 
gin yees trooble?” 

“It’s not a man, Timothy.” 

“Not a mon, thin who is it?” 

“It’s a woman.” 

“A woman! Sur’r now, lad, yees be fooling wid 
me. How could a wooman gin yees trooble?” 

1 66 


2Df DID JFott Kccouerp 


'‘Well, you see, Timothy, I am going to be married 
to-night at seven o’clock and you are in it.” 

“In it, did yees say ! Phat’s the poor woman got 
ginst mesilf? Sur’e Oi niver so much as tipped me 
ould dirty cap to her.” 

“Yes, you have, and you are in it this time. I 
have already told her what a good, brave fellow you 
are, and how you fought the Indians with me, and 
she is so anxious to see you that I just had to promise 
her to bring you along with me.” 

“Ah, go lang wid yees ! Sur’r Oi loik to be talken 
wid a foin lady, but me regalia is not dacent enough 
f’r dress pr’rade.” 

“Come now, I am going to fix you as fine as a 
British corporal.” 

“Stop right there, lad. None yir sinuatin !” 

“Say, Timothy, you will go with me, won’t you ?” 

“Yis, lad, but Oi sooner go to war.” 

“Well, there is no war to go to any more.” 

“Who did yees say we wer’r to marry?” 

“We were to marry? Why, Tim, you are not going 
to marry anybody. I am the one that’s going to get 
married, not you.” 

“Oi taught, Oi taught yees sid wer’r goin’ to be 
married, and thet mesilf was in it.” 

“Well, I meant that I wanted you to come along as 
the best man.” 

“Sur’r Oi’m the best mon this side of Ould Irland.” 

“Yes, your are right, Timothy.” 

“Say, lad, who are we goin’ to marry anyway, and 
hev yee^ talked wid her about it.” 

“Yes, I have talked it all over and everything is 
all right, and you will think so when you see her.” 
167 


9rt|)ut Claft 


“Who is she?” 

^'Virginia Luwalling.’^ 

“Virginia Luwallen! Holy St. Patrick, mon, do 
yees want to git yersilf kilt?’' 

“Oh, everything is all right, and don’t get excited.” 

“Say, lad, where’s Jim Luwallin’? Sur’r if hees 
thir, Oi’ll be tillin him something — thet he bitter 
br’ring back yir father befur he has a widden.” 

“Now look here, Timothy! You are not going 
to make trouble, but to have a good time. Jim Lu- 
walling does not know me at all with this beard, al- 
though I have been talking to him off and on since 
last Christmas. But Virginia does, and she under- 
stands the whole situation. While my beard has 
served as a disguise for me, yours will have to come 
off.” 

“Shave me face?” 

“Yes, smooth as an onion.” 

“Listen, now when you get there, you must never 
let on who you are and be careful what you say. My 
name is Major Arthur and you must not say a word 
about the St. Clairs, and if Luwalling should talk to 
you, don’t let on like you know him, and don’t know 
yourself.” 

“Yis, Oi understand yees, and yir name is Major 
St. Qair, but who am Oi?” 

“No, no, your not to say anything about the St. 
Clairs at all. Keep that in mind. If Jim Luwalling 
should recognize you and I he would kill us both. 
Now do be careful, for everything depends on how 
well you manage your part.” 

“Now commence to get yourself harnessed for the 
occasion. You must get that face trimmed up in a 
i68 


flDf ©ID jfort Kecotierp 


respectable shape, then we will begin to fit the clothes 
on you. Here are gloves, stockings, shoes, shirts, 
coats, trousers and everything. So lay to it and rig 
yourself up like the brave old soldier that you are. 
You know you fought with my father, and you fought 
with me, and you are the best friend I have in the 
world.” 

“Yes, too, you must not let them know who you 
are. Tell them you are Mr. Brown — Billie Brown.” 

“Billie Brown! Th’ Divil take yees! Me name 
Billie Brown wid this face on me? Why, mon, do 
yees want to hev me sint to the gar’rud house f’r ob- 
tainin’ a name be false pretins? Sur’r me name is 
Timothy Hogan, dr’runk ur sober, and it’s me name 
thet Oi’m pr’roud of.” 

“You and I, Tim, must keep our names a secret. 
No one must know them but we three. Virginia, my 
intended wife, will know you.” 

“Say, lad, is she goen to be ther wid yees? Thet 
little curly-headed gerril wid de brown eyes? Sur’r, 
lad, she’ll be glad to sa her ould uncle Timothy 
Hogan, want she?” 

“Yes, she will be delighted.” 

“Hev yees told her about me, so she want be after 
goin’ into convoolshuns whin she sas me?” 

“She will be prepared for the shock, if you are 
careful and calm yourself. But do be prudent, and 
don’t speak a word until you are sure of what you 
are going to say. Now they have some good old 
Madeira in the cellar, but you’d better keep away 
from it, and don’t let the servants bribe you into 
going where it is.” 

“Yees ur careful to tell the children whir they kape 
169 


3tt{)ur Clait 


the bane bag, so thet they won’t be after puttin’ thim 
oop their noses, ain’t yees?” 

"‘Well, I guess you are old enough to know how to 
manage the temperance question when you get to it.” 

“Tru’r, but Oi dunt git to it. Oi won’t heft to 
manage it, so O’ll kape away fr’m it. Phat did yees 
say me name was?” 

'‘Have you forgotten it this soon ? How do you ex- 
pect to tell them who you are if you cannot remember 
it five minutes?” 

“Oi taught yees sid kape it to mesilf, so Oi furgot 
it quick as Oi could, thin I wouldn’t be after tillin’ 
it.” 

“I’d better write your name for you, and when 
you go in, the servant will take your card, instead of 
asking your name, and then will take you around and 
introduce you to the guests, and in that way you will 
not have any worry about who you are.” 

“Phat am Oi to do whin Oi’m introjuist?” 

“Oh, sit down, walk around, or go and engage the 
ladies in conversation or anything to amuse yourself 
and have a good time. You must hurry up now and 
get ready. I want to see you in full dress, that I 
may know how you are going to look.” 

“Thir’ how’s me face?” 

“Fine! It looks like the map of Ireland.” 

“It doos, doos it? And yees could tell me nativity 
on me face, could yees?” 

“Yes, you look like an Irish Major at the head of 
a Dutch brigade.”' 

“Will, Oi dun’t know whither thets a distinction 
wid out a compliment ur not, but thin th’ Irish Ma- 
jor sounds all right to me.” 

170 


£I)f DID jFott lElecotictg 

“Now, Tim, do be careful and put on something 
green.” 

“Niver yees moind, lad, whin Oi git the’r they’l 
not nade to turn on the skylight, Oi’ll warrn’t yees.” 

“Go right ahead now and get yourself all fitted out 
and be ready when I call you for inspection. I have 
several matters to look after and I shall expect you to 
take care of yourself and follow instructions to the 
letter.” 

The hours flew as “swift as the thoughts of love” 
and the evening shadows began to fall before Tim 
passed the final test and was approved by his good 
friend, the Major. The final instructions were given 
and a few cards prepared with his name thereon, 
which Tim could not make out to save his life, as he 
could not read without glasses, and of course had 
none with him. 

The old gentleman had a very strenuous day of it, 
but finally, after much fuss and worry, got himself 
groomed and bewigged for the occasion and was as 
proud and mirthful as could be, though as busy as a 
hen with a flock of new hatched fledglings. 

The servants in yellow and crimson livery had re- 
ceived their final instructions, and were at their sta- 
tions by six o’clock, when the few invited guests be- 
gan to arrive, and everything went as merry as a 
marriage bell. 

Poor Tim had paid but little attention to the direc- 
tions given and had a world of trouble to reach the 
place, but finally arrived there, and with trembling 
paused at the outer door, where he waited for some 
time, wondering why some one did not come out and 
invite him inside. After several persons had passed 
171 


3tt!jut %t. Clait 


him on the steps of the portico, an alarm was raised 
that a strange man was hanging around on the out- 
side, and a servant was sent out to learn what the in- 
truder wanted. 

“Beg pahdon, sah! What you all want around 
heah ?” 

“Phat yees all want here? Thir’s nobuddy here 
but mesilf.’’ 

“Well, sah, what you all want?” 

“Oi dun’t want nothing out if the loiks of ye, and if 
Oi did Oi’d not be after axin’ a blackgar-rud to be 
gittin’ it for me.” 

“Yo am all ’truden on dis heah premsus, and Massa 
Luwallin’ done corned out here and trow you out. Yo 
bettah all gwine waif frum heah.” 

“Oi’d loik to sa the mon thet could trow Tim Hogan 
out whin he ain’t in. Oi fought minny a battle wid 
the British and wid the Injins, and Oi’l be 
lighten ” 

The loud, boisterous noise had attracted the atten- 
tion of Virginia, and she hurriedly sent the Major out 
to settle the trouble, who arrived just in time to hear 
his friend pronouncing the very thing that was to be 
kept a profound secret. Fortunately the old colored 
servant was so badly frightened he was unable to give 
any rational account of what had happened. Seeing 
the Major, poor Tim closed up like a steel trap. 

“Why, hello there, Billie!” says the Major. 

“Who the divil is Billie?” 

“I say, old fellow, did you bring those papers?” 

“Sur-r, mon I Here the wons ye gave me,” handing 
the cards over to his friend. 

172 


2Df ©ID JFott KecoDctp 


“Well, come right along with me and we will see 
Miss Virginia about it.’^ 

Taking his old friend by the arm he led him into 
the hall and up the stairs to his room, all the time 
holding his hand over his mouth, and at the same 
time begging him to be quiet, for heaven’s sake. After 
getting him in the room and the door securely bolted 
he made him sit down and keep quiet. It was so ludi- 
crous and facetious that the Major could not hold 
himself any longer, but roared with laughter at Tim’s 
expense, who could not see the fun at all, and began 
to get up his fighting temperature. 

“What were you doing outside, Tim?” 

“Why, mon, Oi was waitin’ to be invited in, whin 
a black nager insoolted me. If Oi see him anny more 
Oi’ll ” 

“Come now, Timothy, you must not carry on that 
way. You will get us all in trouble, and Luwalling 
will kill you and I both, and drive Virginia from his 
home, and I know you do not want that done, do 
you ?” 

“Whir’s Virginia, and Oi wander would she know 
me in me new clothes ?” 

“No, she will not know you at all, give yourself no 
uneasiness about that.” 

“But sur-r she’ll be glad to sa me whin she knows 
Tim Hogan’s here.” 

“Come now, that’s not your name at all.” 

“Well, who the divil sed it woos.” 

“You must not use your name, nor mine, either, and 
I want you to remember that. My name is Major 
Arthur, and your name is ” 

“Timothy Hogan.” 


m 


3ttt)ur Clatt 


“Now, if you’re going to stick to that name I’ll just 
leave you locked in this room until it is all over, then 
I don’t care whether you have a name or not. We are 
going to have something good to eat, and some wine 
to drink ” 

“Begoory, Oi’d loik a little oof the wine now — me 
throat’s gittin’ husky !” 

“Well, if you will promise me that you’ll not make 
any mistakes about our names and keep quiet, and say 
nothing, only yes and no. I’ll get you some, that will 
open your eyes and make you young again.” 

“Sur-r, Oi’ll make the promise, but if Oi fail, thin 
Oi’ll be layin’ it oont’ the wine.” 

“Yes, I suppose that you will find some way out of 
it ; but if you’re killed what will you do ?” 

“Die wid me boots on in the line of me jooty.” 

“Have you made your will and given directions for 
your funeral? If not, you had better do so, for I am 
sure you are going to get us both in a mix-up that 
will have a tragedy for the grand finale.” 

Opening a cupboard in the wall several bottles came 
in view, and drawing a cork the Major passed one over 
to his old comrade, who never stopped to examine 
the brand or count the cobwebs, but poured it down 
without stopping. 

“Is it good, Timothy?” 

It was some moments before Tim could answer, for 
he had held his breath so long in consuming the bot- 
tle of wine, that he had to take several gasps before 
he was fully recovered, when he gave his reply. 

“Oi’ll ex’rcise me jconstetoochenal right and with- 
hold me jidgment, as the justice says.” 

“Until when?” 


174 


Df DIB jFott Bccolictg 

“ ’Till Oi gita nuther’n, then Oi’ll decide betwain 
thim/' 

“Suppose you don’t never get any more?” 

“Thin Oi’ll always be in doubt.” 

“I am sorry to leave your mind in such a cloudy 
condition, but I am afraid too many bottles might 
confuse your judgment.” 

“Will, thin, lave me here in th’ room and Oi’ll write 
me opinion and hand it doown to-marrow marnin’.” 

“What would be your opinion?” 

“Still in doubt.” 

“Now, you have had wine enough, come, get your- 
self ready. It will soon be seven o’clock and the wed- 
ding march will begin.” 

“Phat’s the number of this room? Oi’m afr-raid 
Oi can’t foind it inny mour.” 

“Never mind the number of the room, but brush 
up your hair a little and put on these white gloves., 
and try to look intelligent.” 

“Intilligent, is it? It is aisy to look intilligent, but 
it’s divilish hard to be actin’ it.” 

“Well, try both once, and see if you can make a 
hand at it. 

“Now, come on, we must meet the bride, and lady 
friend, and I’ll make you acquainted with them, when 
you must try and bow and show your manners.” 

The hour was close at hand, and coming out into 
the great upper hall they were met by Miss Virginia 
and her waiting lady and attendants. 

The Major was presented and then, turning about, 
he led the poor fellow to the slaughter. “Miss Lu-' 
walling, this is Mr. Brown, an old friend of mine, 
whom I present to you as my best man.” 

175 


attftuc Clait 

Tim, instead of bowing, gave a military salute and 
cut loose: '‘Holy St. Patrick and Virgin Mary! Oi’d 
niver known yees. How yees be grown since last I 
seed yees. Ye didn’t hardly know yir ould fr-riend 
Timothy Hogan wid thes trimmin’s on, did yees?” 

Arthur seemed to not heed Tim’s remarks, and pre- 
sented him to the bridesmaid. 

"Miss Worthington, my best man, Mr. Brown. He 
has been practicing on a little speech, which he is go- 
ing to deliver, impersonating the character of Mr. 
Hogan, and he forgets himself.” 

The little break of Tim’s caused a ripple of laughter, 
in which all joined but Arthur and Timothy, to whom 
it was by no means a laughing matter. 

Poor Arthur began to think that his old friend 
would give the snap away in spite of all that could 
be done, and Tim, who thought he was playing his part 
well, could not see anything very funny, nor could he 
understand what the others were laughing at. 

Just as the old wooden clock in the hall began to 
strike the hour of seven the first notes of the wedding 
march broke the silence, and whispering to his friend 
to watch what he did and do likewise. 

Arthur stepped to the edge of the stairs, and offer- 
ing his arm to the bride-tp-be, they started on their 
journey, keeping step to the tempo of the march, fol- 
lowed by Tim and his lady, who had watched the 
gallant Major and profited thereby. 

Down the great, old broad stairway, which circled 
at the bottom and led either way into the drawing- 
room on one side and the library on the other, they 
moved in delightful measures, keeping step with the 
music. 


176 


fiOf DID jFott Eccotjctg 

On reaching the hall below the bride and groom 
separated, and pausing for a moment until joined by 
the bridegroom and bridesmaid, when they moved 
around in a circle, each party going through separate 
rooms, until they reached the parlor, which they en- 
tered at separate doors, but again joined just in front 
of the good old parson, who was standing as straight 
as an arrow, and in waiting for them. All the guests 
were assembled in this room, while the servants looked 
on through the entrance to the other rooms. The 
sight was a very pretty one, and Tim was as proud as 
a peacock, and brave as a lion. Down the stairway 
and through the rooms he had kept the step with a 
whole lot of emphasis on the right foot, and every 
time he set that foot down there was a rattle around 
the windows. His eyes and face gave him a lot of 
trouble, and he was kept busy arching his eyebrows,, 
puckering up his mouth, frowning, then smiling, then 
serious, and, last of all, trying to look intelligent. 

When the little procession paused and all was quiet,, 
the good old parson raised his voice, and broke the 
breathlike silence that had not been disturbed for 
some moments, except by Tim’s breathing, which was 
exceptionally loud, and served the purpose of draw- 
ing attention to the beautiful grimaces that were 
thrown across his face. 

“Who is here that can give away the bride ?” 

Now came the time for the Old Virginian to per- 
form his part of the ceremony, and stepping forward, 
began : 

“I, James Luwalling, the lawful and rightful guard- 
ian, protector and father of my daughter, Virginia 
Luwalling, do now publicly offer her as a sacrifice 
177 


3ttl)ur Clair 


Upon the shrine of holy matrimony to become the wife 
of— of— of ’’ 

The old gentleman paused, stammered, cleared his 
throat, and the silence became painful. Arthur and 
Virginia were dumb with fright and dare not say a 
word. This little part of the ceremony had been de- 
veloped by the old gentleman, but the strain was too 
much for him, and he forgot the latter part of it, and 
not knowing the Major’s name, he found in his di- 
lemma, he could not go through with it. 

Tim seeing the old man in distress became interested, 
and while he had no love for Jim Luwalling, he was 
too kind-hearted to see anyone wanting or asking for 
anything, without getting his assistance, and so they 
did this time. 

The old gentleman, while making his speech, walked 
back and forth along the side of the parson, and when 
he reached the point of distress he was back of him, 
facing an old darky, who stood holding a large bunch 
of white roses. And as the fellow hung his head, wait- 
ing for the word, Tim cut loose with a voice like a fog 
trumpet : 

“Major Arthur St. Clair, your riverence !” 

“Arthur St. Clair!” shouted the old man, and fell 
into the arms of his negro servant, who quietly car- 
ried him into his bedroom adjoining, and lay him 
down as tenderly as a sleeping babe. 

All this had occurred without disturbing the parson, 
who did not see the old gentleman fall, but proceeded 
with the ceremony. 

“And do you. Major Arthur St. Clair, accept the 
sacrifice ?” 

“I do,” came a weak, feeble voice, scarcely audible. 
178 


fSS>t fl[)lD jFott Rccot^erg 

“You may join hands. By the authority of God’s 
Holy Laws and the laws of the land, I pronounce you 
man and wife.” 


CHAPTER XVH 

A SUNSET GLOW WITH RUBIES 

Springtime came, with its bursting buds and bloom- 
ing flowers, tinctured with the sunshine and moistened 
by April showers. The warmth of the early spring 
acted as a tonic upon old Mr. Luwalling, and with the 
early season came renewed vigor, strength and en- 
ergy. All during the winter months Virginia and 
Arthur watched over him as tenderly as a mother cares 
for her sick babe. Arthur, with his big, strong arms, 
lifted him about, as though he were only a child. The 
stroke of paralysis had entirely incapacitated him for 
months, during which time he was unable to speak 
a single word; but gradually his malady became di- 
luted with his growing strength, until he was able to 
be around again, and talk a little. 

It was some time after his speech returned before 
he had very much to say. Virginia and Arthur were 
with him nearly all the time, except when he was tak- 
ing his walks. When the sparkle of the eye had re- 
turned, and he seemed much brighter, he began to 
take an interest in things about him, but had never 
manifested the slightest animosity toward his son-in- 
law, and the matter of their differences seemed to be 
entirely eradicated from his mind. 

One afternoon there had fallen a warm April 
shower, and the sun shone beautifully through the 
179 


attfiut @)t. Clair 


trees and bursting buds, and the drops of water, as 
they hung on limb and twig, globed the world in 
sparkling gems, whose rays reflected in the evening 
sunlight like diamonds. The old gentleman seemed in 
a talkative mood, and Virginia and Arthur were lis- 
tening and answering his many questions, when sud- 
denly he paused and remained silent for a time, with 
his hands crossed on top of his walking staff, and his 
head bent down, and rested there. His actions at- 
tracted the attention of his children, who watched 
him with tender interest and affection. His gray hairs 
gathered about his shoulders, his aged and bent form 
greatly emaciated and hands atrophied, presented to 
them a picture that awakened the most tender sympa- 
thy, and they became alarmed, and Virginia began 
asking him questions, which he slowly and carefully 
answered, as though something was weighing upon 
his mind. Arousing himself from his stooping posi- 
tion, he turned partially around toward his old enemy, 
and eying him for a moment began : 

“This is Arthur St. Clair, is it — the son of Major 
St. Clair, whom I used to know, and whom I loved 
like a brother? My boy, how you have grown since 
we all lived down in Old Virginia ! Oh ! how I would 
like to live there again, and hear the good old darkies 
singing their sweet melodies, down in the cotton, corn 
and cane, and hear once more their peals of laughter, 
and see them roll on the little cabin floors. But then 
that is all past now for me, and no more will I see 
them hoe the corn and cotton and strip the blades of 
•cane, and I shall not again hear them singing their 
merry songs I loved so well when I was young.^’ 

“This is Arthur St. Clair, is it? 

i8o 


2D( Jfott JRecoijetg 


‘‘Gracious boy, how youVe grown since the time 
you and Virginia used to play together when you were 
children. How pretty you were, and how your father 
loved you, but that has been a long time ago, and I 
suspect that I have helped much in making the time 
seem long. I could have subdued my feelings, and if 
I had tried as hard to forgive and forget, as I did to 
revenge an imaginary wrong, it would have all been 
forgotten long ago. 

“I reckon your mother has been dead some years, 
has she not ? Poor Mrs. St. Clair, how I pity her, for 
she has suffered no one knows how much, and I have 
been blamed for it all ! God knows, that I never took 
the life of your father, Arthur, my boy, and never 
harmed him in the least. Your mother always thought 
so, and told me she believed that I had killed and 
robbed him, and that almost killed me, and made me 
dreadfully angry at her. 

“But she is dead now, is she?’' 

“No; my mother is alive and well.” 

“Live and well ! You don’t say so ? 

“How I should like to see her and ask her forgive- 
ness. I reckon it was a great wrong to take the old 
plantation away from her, but in my wrath I looked 
for nothing but revenge; all the kindly and better 
qualities in me seemed to have been dormant. I can 
see now how wrong I did! Took the old home from 
her, where she was born and bred, and how she loved 
that place. Drove her out into the world, and took 
all her property. Oh ! I must have been blind I 

“And your mother is well, is she? Now, isn’t that 
good. But I suppose she has suffered more than can 
ever be told, and how can I atone for the wrongs that 
i8i 


attt)Ut Clai't 


I have done her ? Poor Mrs. St. Clair ! Was Avoman 
ever so grievously wronged? It was not enough for 
me to see her suffer the loss of her dear husband, but 
to that sorrow I added the pangs of the loss of home 
and youthful surroundings. Oh! dear — dear!” 

The old man's palsied hands went to his staff, and 
the whitened head bent low, while his frame shook 
with griefs convulsive throb, and from his old eyes 
there ran a flood of salted sorrow and fell to the floor. 
Virginia and Arthur turned their heads away from the 
painful scene, for it brought to them the troubled sea, 
upon whose stormed-tossed waters they had struggled 
for years. 

The flood of grief seemed to relief the old gentle- 
man of his distress, and after while he looked up and 
addressed his children : 

'‘Come here, Virginia and Arthur, come up close to 
me, for I want to tell you something, and I want you 
to help me, will you ?” 

“Why, father, certainly — what is it you would have 
us do for you ?” 

They came up close to the poor old man, and kneel- 
ing down by his side each took hold of one of his 
palsied hands and, looking up in his face, inquired 
what they could do to help him. 

“Ah! my dear children, you worked a great sur- 
prise on your poor old father, and certainly no man 
was ever more completely fooled than I. You little 
rascals! How can I punish you? Think how you 
pretended to be helping me to get ahead of one of 
my supposed enemies, never dreaming that I was the 
only foe I had. It is all very plain now, but I shall 
get even with you some time, but for the present I 
182 


SDf ©10 jFott EecoOetg 


forgive you both, with all my heart. My dear chil- 
dren, how good and kind you have been to me ! Now 
I want you to help me surprise your mother, Arthur. 
How she has been wronged! We must do all we 
can to right the evil done, and make her happy. Does 
she know what has happened?” 

'‘Yes, father, we have written her and told her of 
our marriage.” 

“Let me see, what can we do for her?” 

“Say, papa, why not give the old plantation back to 
Arthur’s mother, and let us go down there and live 
like we did when Arthur and I were young?” 

“Oh ! my dear daughter, the place is so badly in need 
of repairs, I could not have the heart to turn the 
property back to poor Mrs. St. Clair until it has been 
made to look just like it did when she was a girl.” 

“Yes, papa, it has been repaired and put in order. 
I sent the letter you had written to your agent, and he 
replies that he has it almost finished, but that he is 
unable to obtain the furnishings, since he does not 
know how they were, and wants you to send some one 
down to take charge of that part of the work. Was 
that what he said, Arthur, dear ?” 

“Yes, I believe so.” 

“I wonder whom we could find that could do that 
work the way it should be done ?” 

“You could go, couldn’t you, Arthur?” 

“No! no! Arthur, my boy, you must not think of 
leaving me, for I can never let you go. I cannot get 
along without you. You remind me so much of your 
father, and you must never leave me.” 

“Whom can we get, Arthur, to do this work for 
papa, since he is not willing to let you go ?” 

183 


att&uc ^t> Claic 

'‘Our old friend, Timothy Hogan, is the only per- 
son in the world that can be trusted to do it right.” 

"Timothy Hogan! Is he still living? Well, bless 
my stars ! I thought him dead a long time ago, for I 
haven't seen him for years.” 

"You forget, papa, you saw him at our wedding.” 

"Did I? Well, I reckon that I did, but failed to 
recognize him.” 

"You did not know him, although he was there, 
and acted as Arthur's best man.” 

"Arthur's best man? Was that Tim Hogan that 
stood beside you making the grimaces, breathing like 
a porpoise, and balled out your name like a fog trum- 
pet?” 

"Yes, papa, none other than our dear old Timothy 
Hogan.” 

"Well, well! I guess I'm getting old and can't see 
very good any more, for I never dreamed of him. 
How I must have been fooled. An old fool is the 
biggest fool of all, anyway. Send for him at once, 
and do not delay a moment.” 

"Now, Arthur, you and daughter must go down to 
the city to-morrow and get linens, silverware, carpets, 
rugs and all kinds of furnishings, as nearly like the 
old ones as possible. Get the draft you would not 
accept from me as shopping money and use it, and if 
you need any more, go to the bank and draw out what 
you want, but do not stop for expenses. I wish you 
would run over my account at the bank and get my 
balances for me, will you, my boy ?” 

"Certainly, I shall be glad to do so.” 

"Oh! I almost forgot to ask you. When did your 
company get back from New York?” 

184 


©( ©ID jFort IRecobetp 


“Company back from New York? Why, father, 
how was that?’' 

‘‘You know there were orders from the War De- 
partment for you to be transferred to that city, and I 
wanted to know when you came back ?” 

“Oh, papa, Arthur and I just fixed up that little 
matter for you, so you would consent to a hasty wed- 
ding. He didn’t have any order at all from the War 
Department.” 

A troubled expression hung on the old man’s face 
for a moment as he eyed his daughter closely, noting 
the merry laughter, which her face indicated. He 
then turned to Arthur and gave him the same inquisi- 
tive research, and saw a smile playing around his 
mouth, and it dawned on him that he had been fooled 
again. Seeing the hard lines soften across his coun- 
tenance, they both burst into a hearty laugh, and Vir- 
ginia, kneeling down at her father’s side, put her arms 
around his neck and kissing his cheeks, said to him 
half jokingly: 

“You don’t care now, do you, papa ?” 

“You little, naughty girl ! How could you have the 
heart to play such tricks on your poor old father?” 

“Why, papa, we had to handle you some way, for 
you were getting troublesome, and it didn’t hurt you 
any, did it?” 

“Yes, yes, I see it all now. You had to make a fool 
out of me, and I guess you did it handsomely. And 
Arthur didn’t go to New York at all?” 

“Why, no, papa, we just had that to make you be- 
lieve he had to go at once.” 

“All right, children, I forgive you again, and will 
keep on forgiving you so long as your little tricks 

185 


attijut S)t. Clait 


turn out so much to my happiness and good cheer. 
But you certainly had this Old Virginian guessing 
some. 

“Well, now, you must go right ahead with your 
planning. Oh! there is one thing that I had almost 
forgotten. I am so forgetful. The deed — the deed !’’ 

“Why, father, what deed do you mean?” 

“The deed to Mrs. St. Clair, Arthur’s mother, that 
must be made, signed, sealed and delivered before 
these old eyes are closed.” 

“Father, you can do that to-morrow. There is no 
hurry about it.” 

The old gentleman became a little angered, and 
stamping his cane upon the portico floor, indicated his 
displeasure at the suggested delay, and replied with a 
little temper. 

“Not so, my daughter. I will not wait a minute ! I 
have been putting off all my good deeds too long 
now. I must not delay, for God’s touch has so un- 
nerved my arm I can no longer write my name, and 
I dare not wait for the second warning. For he 
cometh where the winds listeth. Send a servant for 
my notary, that has drawn my papers for me, and tell 
him to come at once, and bring a blank deed of con- 
veyance. 

“You, my children, must go and live with her, and 
comfort her all you can in her declining years.” 

“And you must come, too, papa, and we will all live 
together again.” 

“Poor Major St. Clair! How I wish I knew what 
became of him. Of late I have been thinking of him, 
and last night I saw him, old, broken and gray, like 
i86 


SDf ©ID JFort JRecoDetp 


myself. How I have prayed to God that I might know 
what became of him.’' 

“Papa, you will know some day, and your prayers 
will be answered. Isn’t everything turning out all 
right?” 

“Yes, daughter, better than I knew, and better than 
I ever expected.” 

“Here is the notary, father, tell him what you want, 
and here is your packet of old deeds and papers.” 

“Daughter, please hunt out the deed for the old 
Allen farm, as we used to call it.” 

“Here it is — I guess that is the one.” 

“Now, Mr. Notary, draw a deed of general war- 
ranty, for all my interest in the land and property 
described in this instrument, conveying it in fee sim- 
ple, clear of all encumbrances, to Mrs. Major Arthur 
St. Clair.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Scratch, scratch, went the old quill over the paper 
for some time, and at last the notary read what he had 
written, then stopped to inquire for the witnesses. 

“Sign your name right there on that line.” 

“You must write it, for my hand is so afflicted I 
cannot use the quill any more.” 

The deed is soon signed, sealed, and witnessed, and 
the notary paid and gone. 

“Now, Arthur, here is the deed to your poor old 
mother for her lands, and the delivery of it, I trust to 
you. You must send some one for her and have them 
take her down into Old Virginia, on the old planta- 
tion home. And if your father could only be there 
with us, how happy we would be. We will all get 
ready in a few days, when Tim gets the house fur- 
187 


artftur %u Clair 


nished, and, like Jacob of old went down into Egypt, 
with his household, so will we journey back to the 
lands of our nativity, where you, my children, first 
saw the light, and where the mocking birds entrance 
the listing air with their sweet songs; the evening 
zephyrs sigh, and the soft mellow moonlight, in sil- 
ver sheen, paints the nightland with the magic wand 
of her gentle nature. 

'‘Give me your arm, my boy, and help me to my 
room. This has been a great day, and I feel like I 
have done some good, and can sleep well after know- 
ing that I have tried to right the wrongs done in my 
younger days.” 

Good old Timothy Hogan was given a carte blanche, 
and sent down in Virginia to repair, restore and re- 
furnish the old Allen home and plantation grounds. 
He was the busiest and the happiest he had ever been 
in all his life, and it was not long until he had the old 
place back to its former condition and beauty. Not 
a single detail escaped him, and the thought uppermost 
in his mind was to please Mrs. St. Clair. Up early 
and late, working, directing and watching. Not a mo- 
ment to lose, for he must have everything in place 
before she came, and he was expecting her any time. 

One day in June, when his work was about com- 
pleted, Tim went on a tour of inspection to ascertain 
if any possible detail had been overlooked. Nothing 
escaped him, even the very smallest of matters had his 
attention. Walking around the premises, looking up 
at the fine old mansion; the fences, the outbuildings; 
the barns, trees, flowers and shrubs ; the lawn and 
walks were all put in the finest condition. As the dif- 
i88 



“Sur-r as me name is Hogan it’s thim. Oi’m glsiJ 
they didn'^t sa me farst/’ 


<A.rth;ur St. Clair,)— P. 1&9 






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ferent parts of the work were put in order, Tim would 
say to himself : 

“Sur-r, Oi hope thet will be suiten Mrs. St. Clair.’’ 

While standing out in front of the old portico, his 
attention was attracted by the clatter of horses’ hoofs, 
and looking about he saw a carriage approaching the 
house. Screening his eyes with his hands to see who 
was coming, he chuckled to himself : 

'‘Sur-r as me name is Hogan it’s thim. Oi’m glad 
they didn’t sa me farst. Oi want thim to look around 
a bit.” 

Tim moved away out of their sight and watched 
from his hiding place, to see who it was and what they 
would do. Poor Mrs. St. Clair could hardly believe 
her own eyes. There before her in the noonday sun 
was her old plantation home of her childhood. Its 
walls were white as they once were; the old broad 
veranda, with its mighty columns were there, as of 
old ; and the roof of slate and dormer windows, all as 
they used to be. The old colored lady got down first 
and helped Mrs. St. Clair to get out, and they started 
toward the house. 

‘‘Here Aunt Chloe is the wild rosebush at the cor- 
ner, and its bloom is as fragrant as when I was a 
girl. How I used to wear a bunch of them on my 
bosom, when looking for the Major. Chloe, I wish 
you would do so for me now — pick the largest and 
reddest, and pin them right here.” 

“Dah, Honey! dem’s like what Ise done pinned on 
youse when you and de Majah wah young.” 

Poor Tim had crept up close to the corner of the 
house that he might hear, but when he heard what they 
189 


actfeur §>t. Clai't 


had to say it touched his heart and he slipped away out 
of their sight to drop a tear. 

“Come, Chloe, let us go inside. The door seems 
open, although there is no one here to welcome us.” 

“Why, Honey, it am jis’ like it wah befo' we all 
done went away!” 

“Yes, Chloe, and I wonder who has caused it all. 
Some one has been here, who knew how it was be- 
fore, and who could it have been. Here is the great 
broad hallway and the old oaken stairs, just like it was 
when I was a little girl. Here is the parlor, drawing 
and dining room, with furnishings, linens and silver- 
ware — how like the same?” 

“Now, if I could only see my husband! Poor 
Major! and my dear Arthur boy! Oh! Chloe, these 
things recall to mind the love, the joy and happiness 
of former years, and I could sit here and dwell in 
memory’s sacred precincts and weep until dissolved 
by the flood of my own tears.” 

“Oh, Missum, it am suah nuff gwine come out all 
right, fo dem coffee grounds done told me so dis 
mon in . 

“Why, here is the old clock I sold at my sale! I 
wonder how they got it back. There hangs the 
Major’s sword,” and seizing the scabbard kissed it 
fervently. 

“Yes, it has all been planned by some one, whose 
heart is in sympathy with human suffering. Perhaps 
a desire to undo a wrong has been the motive.” 

^'Oi begs yir pardon, Misses St. Clair, but sur-r 
Oi’m glad to sa yee.” 

“Oh ! Timothy, this is some of your work !” 

“Yis, ma’am, Oi hopes yir not displeased wid it!” 

190 


2Df ©ID Jfort KecoDerp 


“Oh ! no, Timothy ; and I thank you very kindly. 
But have you seen my Arthur boy since he went 
away 

“Yees be manen the Major, do yees?” 

“No, Arthur, my boy ?” 

“Oh ! sur-r have Oi said him ? Minny a toime, and 
he’ll be coming soon, and there ba some wan wid him 
— or mane he — yes, ma’am, hee’s well, and he’s a fine 
Major.” 

“Major?” 

“Yis; and Oi mane hee’s been mar — or, Oi mane 
hee’s a man now, you know.” 

“Oh ! yes, certainly he is ; and if he were only here.” 

Aunt Chloe had been on a tour of inspection and 
ran right on to Tim before she saw him. 

“Why, Tim Hogan, am yo all heah?” 

“Sur-r, an’ as handsome as Oi was whin a boy !” 

“Well, yo nebber gwine to take de prize at de buty 
show ; but you am suttenly good ’bout fixen up de old 
plantation fah de missum. 

“Come, Honey, Aunt Chloe wants yo cum right 
’long up to yo old bedroom. Ah gwine dress yo up 
dis like Ah ust to do, when yo wah young, and fix 
yo haih wid dees huah wild roses, and den Ah gwine 
get suppah in de old din’en room, while yo must go 
out and sot down on de ol’ merandah. Come on 
now. Honey !” 

After a while Mrs. St. Clair, all dressed in white, 
with the wild flowers entwined about her silvery locks, 
came slowly down the oaken stairs, and out on to the 
veranda, where she had sat a thousand times before. 
There she remained lost in a delirium of thought, 
while from the kitchen came Aunt Chloe’s melodious 
191 


3tti)ut %it. Clafr 


voice, with more harmony than ever before, as she 
sang one song after another. 

Timothy was seeing the proudest day of his life. 
He had done it all, but the good honest soul that he 
was, enjoyed his merits all to himself, for he never 
mentioned it to others. Walking about the premises, 
as though there might be something more that he 
could do, to further please Mrs. St. Clair, he ob- 
served her sitting where he had seen her many times, 
in years gone by, and he thought she looked like she 
did, when first he saw her. He began to get nervous 
and wished that Arthur would come, that he and Vir- 
ginia might enjoy what was so much a delight to 
himself, and in his anxiety he had not long to wait. 

Here came another carriage up the gravelly way, 
and Tim's old heart tried to get out from under his 
green vest, for he was certain that the expected was 
coming, at last. But he concluded it best to wait 
where he was, and not let them see him. 

On came the carriage and driving up the great 
broad way in front of the house, they stopped and 
the occupants began to get out. Arthur first, who as- 
sisted Virginia, then her father. Mrs. St. Clair had 
not taken any notice of what was taking place, but 
seemed lost in her own meditation. She had been ob- 
served by the occupants of the carriage, but not recog- 
nized until they came up close to the steps. Waken- 
ing from her reverie, she looked up, her face, though 
pale and sad, bore the likeness of her younger days. 

“Mother!" 

“Arthur, my boy I" 

Was repeated almost simultaneously. Arthur had 
clasped his mother to his manly breast and upon her 
192 


a)f flPlD Jfott Hecotoetg 

pale and trembling lips pressed a kiss of warm devo- 
tion. His mother clung to him, as though she were 
afraid he might get away from her again, and after 
relaxing her hold, still held to his arm, and looking 
anxiously into the face of the little lady beside him, 
inquired : 

“Who is this?’^ 

Arthur pressed the little woman to his heart, with 
a kiss, and releasing her, said: 

“The dearest person in all the world, mother, dear- 
er to me than life. It is Virginia, my wife.’" 

“Oh, my dear child, my daughter!” and Mrs. St. 
Clair clasped her to her throbbing heart. 

Old Mr. Luwalling had watched the salutations 
just given, and was much affected. Mrs. St. Clair 
turned slowly toward the old man, with her arm still 
around her new found daughter-in-law, and with her 
right hand extended towards her old enemy, ap- 
proached him. Their hands met and clasped, but 
their old hearts were too full of emotion to permit an 
expression. Standing thus without having exchanged 
glances, the grasp gradually slackened, and turning 
away from each other, they sought solace and com- 
fort in silence. 

Arthur and Virginia went into the old house arm 
in arm, and through the rooms, up the stairs, through 
the halls and down again. Then out in the dining- 
room, where they heard some one singing, in the 
great old kitchen, and of course must see at once 
who it was. Pushing the door open gently, they 
walked in. Aunt Chloe looked at them, her big eyes 
almost ready to jump out of her head. 

193 


^rtftut Clait 

"‘Why Aunt Chloe, don't you know your Arthur 
boy !" 

“Foah de Lawd sake ! Am dat you, Honey ?" 

Aunt Chloe wiped the flour from her hands, and 
came quickly toward them, and as she did so, Arthur 
said to her: 

‘‘Aunty, you don’t know who this is, do you?” 

“Deed, Ah don’t, honey, but Ah specs it am sum 
buddy yo old Aunty horter know.” 

Just then Virginia threw her arms around the old 
darkey’s neck, saying as she did so : 

“Why, Aunty, don’t you remember your little Vir- 
ginia?” 

“Jinnie Luwallen! Why, chile, yo done sprize dis 
heah old woman till she gwine had de palpation of 
de ha’t. Why, honey, you deah chile! Gord bress 
yo boaf.” 

“Ah knowed de coffee grounds suah nuff tole de 
troof. Ah low yo all gwine cum back some time. 
Look heah, honey, what Aunt Chloe dun got! Look 
heah, chile — a leddah. Yassum, dat am de leddah 
yo all rote you muddah, an suah nuff Ah’s dun had it 
right heah in my old boosom ebbeh sens. And Ah 
tell yu chillen hit done driv de old rumatics away, 
mos’en de time.” 

Arthur and Virginia moved on around the house 
and grounds, from place to place, from room to room, 
from flower to flower, and in their journey came 
across Timothy, who was so happy to see them he 
couldn’t hardly hold himself. As soon as he seen them 
approaching him, began talking and laughing, and 
as they came up close to him, Virginia with a merry 
laughter, saluted him: 


194 


flPC £1)10 JTott Eecotoetg 

'‘Major Arthur St. Clair, yir riverence V 

“Ha! Ha! How are you, Timothy, any way?” 

“Sur’r foin! foin! And how's the two of you? And 
Oi hope yir will and happy. Say, lad, the ould diggins 
be loiken foin, ain’t she? Oi tell yees, lad, Oi hopen 
it places yir mither, fir Oi wouldn’t be after haven her 
dissatisfied fir all the wor’ruld, lad, for all the wor’- 
ruld.” 

Virginia got hold of one of Tim’s arms and Arthur 
a hold of the other, and the three went through the 
grounds together, while Tim’s old tongue was oiled 
with a lubricant that set it running, and many a fine 
story he told them. Not noting the flight of time, they 
came close around the house, and as they drew near 
the old kitchen door, they were accosted with a 
merry laughter. Aunt Chloe had been watching and 
looking for them. 

“You chillen bettah all git ready fo yoah suppah. 
De biscuit am hot an de coflfee am a bilin’. Come 
right on now, an you, too, Tim, foah Ah gwine tell 
yo foshen wid de grounds.” 

“Gwan thir now! Oi’ll be dr’rinken yir coffee an 
aten yir hot biscuit, but sur’r Oi’l not be after heven 
me fairtion told wid de gr’rounds.” 

Aunt Chloe did not wait for Tim’s reply, but darted 
back into the great old kitchen to attend to some- 
thing. Soon she appeared at the door again with 
further directions. 

“Artie, yo and Jinnie go and brung yo foddah and 
muddah to de suppah, for hit am now al ready and 
waiten.” 

A few evenings later, when the sunset glowed with 
rubies, and all nature was folding her arms for the 

195 


artftut @it. Clair 


night’s somber repose, the shadows were falling far 
out toward the great highway, all the family had 
gathered upon the old portico, and rustic seats about 
the front of the house, chatting merrily over the 
events of the past. Tim and Chloe were occasionally 
exchanging compliments, while Arthur and Virginia 
were very much occupied with each other. Mr. 
Luwalling was detailing to Mrs. St. Clair, the full 
particulars of how he had been managed, fooled and 
surprised by Arthur and Virginia, and the part that 
Timothy had taken. All of this was very interesting 
to her, and she listened attentively to every detail, 
when Tim called out that there was some one coming 
up the driveway, carrying a package and walking 
with a cane. 

'‘Who is it, Timothy?” inquired Arthur. 

“Sur’r it’s a mon !” 

“Don’t you know who it is?” 

“Niver in all me loif hev Oi seed him !” 

Coming up in front of the house, he paused and 
looked about at different objects, and seemed to take 
an interest in everything, point here and there with his 
cane, and would then move up a little closer, and stop 
again. All were now watching him closely, as he 
came up nearer to where they were sitting. He 
paused at the steps and looking inquiringly at each 
of them, and waiting as though undetermined what 
to say, he stood there some moments, then began with 
a very weak, piping voice: 

“Who lives here?” 

“Major Arthur St. Clair, sir,” replied Tim. 

“Major Arthur St. Clair,” repeated the old man 
slowly. “Major Arthur St. Clair! I thought the 
196 


ffl)f Dtp JTott Eecoactg 

place looked familiar. Yes, here is the old veranda, 
with its great white columns; there is the wild rose 
bush (stepping over and plucking a flower) and its 
perfume is as sweet as in the years of long ago. 
Here are the old locust trees, and the hard gravelly 
walks, all just like they were. Yes, this must be 
the place!” 

^‘But who are you?” 

'Timothy Hogan, sir!” 

"Why, man, is this Timothy Hogan?” 

"Sur’r Oi’m Timothy Hogan!” 

"Do you not know me, Timothy?” 

"Nah, Oi don’t know yees !” 

"And you are Timothy Hogan, and don’t know your 
old friend?” 

"Sur’r Oi’m Hogan, alright, and Oi may know yees, 
when Oi knows ye, but Oi don’t know yees now !” 

Tim went up closer to the old man and looked him 
over very closely and then shook his head, with the 
remark : 

"Yees do be looken loik the mon Oi wance knew, 
but thin that mon is dead, and sur’r yir not the wan. 
Oi reckon yees could’n be the loiks of Major St. 
Clair thet wint away wid Jim Luwallen, could yees, 
f’r hee’s been dead morn than twinty yars. Although 
be the Holy St. Patrick, yees do be looken loik him, 
ur me name ’s not Timothy Hogan.” 

"Arthur St. Clair dead ! Can it be possible ? Dead ! 
Dead ! Then I am not he !” Turning slowly around, 
repeating half audibly to himself, as he did so, "Dead, 
dead,” and as he began moving away, Tim came up 
close to him, and took him by the arm, and leading 
the way over to a §eat^ motioned for Arthur to come, 

J97 


attftut §)t> Clair 

and sitting down beside him, they began to ply him 
with questions. 

The poor old fellow’^ was cleanly clad in a coarse 
home spun, that had seen better days, and in one 
hand he carried a walking staff and in the other a 
package of something tied up in an old blue handker- 
chief. 

“My dear sir, were you looking for someone?’' 

“Yes, my boy, I have come along way to find the 
home of Major St. Clair, the Old Allen Farm.” 

“Well, you have found it. This is the very place.” 

“Who lives here now?” 

“Major Arthur St. Clair.” 

“What! Does Major Arthur St. Clair live here 
now ?” 

“Yes, sir, he is living here at the present time.” 

“Where is he?” 

“I am he.” 

“You, lad! You Major St. Clair?” 

“Why, yes, sir! Is there anything strange about 
that?” 

“Yes, there is a mystery here, that I can not under- 
stand. I thought all the time that I was Major St. 
Clair. How can it be?” 

“Oh, you must be mistaken, are you not? You 
cannot be Major St. Clair, for he has been dead for 
many years. He once lived in this house, and he was 
my father.” 

“And he was your father, and he once lived here, 
but has been dead many years?” 

“He disappeared many years ago, while I was a 
small boy, and has never been heard of since, and we 
believe him dead.” 


198 



“What! Does Major Arthur St. Clair live here 
now?” “Yes, sir. he is living here at the 
present time.” 


(Aithur St. Clair.)— P. 198. 



Df ©ID JFort IRecoDetp 


'‘And you are the son of Major St. Clair, that once 
lived in this house? Strange, indeed! Who is the 
old gentleman on the portico yonder?” 

“That is James Luwalling.” 

“James Luwalling, did you say?” 

The old man struggled to his feet, and advancing 
toward his old friend, shouted to the top of his voice : 

“Jim! Jim! Speak, man! Don’t you know me? 
Don’t you know your old friend, the Major?” 

By this time Mr. Luwalling had gotten on his feet 
and advanced as fast as he could. Their hands 
clasped, as James Luwalling exclaimed: 

“Major St. Clair, as sure as I’m alive!” 

The old man as he had advanced toward his friend, 
in his excitement, he dropped the package he had been 
carrying, and rushing back picked it up, and quickly 
returning to his friend, exclaimed with much excite- 
ment : 

“Here’s the money, Jim! Here it is! I did not 
take it! I have not touched it! Here it is just like 
I received it! Come, Jim, don’t blame me! I could 
not help it!” 

This was too much for Timothy, and he cut lose 
with a running talk that was hard to follow. While 
Mrs. St. Clair was up and had her arms about the 
Major, Tim went on. 

“Holy St. Patrick, if yees ain’t me ould fr’rind the 
Major, thin me name’s not Hogan. And how yeve 
changed, and whir hev yees bin all the toime, fir the 
last twinty yars? Sur’r weve all bin think’n ye dead, 
or at least we’v had a strong suspicion uv it.” 

Tim put things in good shape, and Arthur and 

199 


attfiur g)t. Claft 


Virginia were soon about the old man with many ques- 
tions. Then came Aunt Chloe, who was much excited. 

“My Ian, am dat yo, Majah Ahthur? Yo shoah am 
been gon long while, but Ah dun tell em, yo am gwine 
come back, fo dat am what de coffee grounds dun 
say all de time.'’ 

“Gord bress yo, Majah ! Ah knowed yo gwine com 
back !” 

When Aunt Chloe run down in her flood of ecs- 
tacies, Mrs. St. Clair still clinging to her husband, 
kindly queried, with tears across her face, and a 
tremor in her voice: 

“Where have you been. Major, all these long 
years ?" 

The old man with a trembling voice, and scarcely 
audible a few yards away, began a brief narrative, 
while all listened, with a breathless silence, to his 
story. 

“It seems but last night, we were at the ford, James 
and I, and paused upon the banks to look at the ter- 
rible floods, as they rushed along, in madden swirl. 
James pushed on ahead, and ere my horse had en- 
tered the current, a limb was blown from the timber, 
and fell across my head and shoulders. It was a ter- 
rible blow, and I have known nothing for years. 
Some weeks ago, the asylum of North Carolina burned 
down, and I suppose in trying to get out of the build- 
ing I fell or was thrown from an upper story. The 
first thing that I remember clearly, I was out in front 
of the burning building trying to extinguish the 
flames in my clothing. They told me, that all the 
time I was there, I was talking of Jim Luwalling’s 
money.” 


200 


D( ®in Jfott Eecotietp 


Mrs. St. Clair, seeing that he was greatly excited, 
and not fully restored to his normal condition, begged 
him to come in the house, and directed old Aunt 
Chloe to prepare some supper for him. 

The next day an old gray-haired man walking slow- 
ly with a cane and a gray-haired woman by his side 
could be seen going about the old plantation, and 
looking here and there, stopping a little while to cull 
a flower, then moving slowly, and pausing to rest 
awhile under the branches of the old stately trees, 
then moving on again. Coming around to the old 
wild rose bush they paused and Mrs. St. Clair, pluck- 
ing a rose, held it up to the Major’s face, and saying: 

“Here, my dear, is your favorite rose.” 

“Yes, my dear, and its fragrance is as sweet, as in 
the long ago, when at evening time I used to come, 
and you met me with a cluster on your bosom.” 

“Yes, a long time ago, and yet it seems but yester- 
day.” 

Days, weeks, months and years came and went, and 
the three old friends lived in peace and harmony. 
The twilight of old age, with its shadows, grew 
deeper hued, as they fell farther to the east, and a 
ruddy glow of life’s ending day, gently tinged into 
death’s somber shade, and their lives went out as 
peacefully and quietly as the summer day lets down 
her curtain of night. 


The End. 


201 


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